


Breathless

by elfscribe



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bad Poetry, Elven Wine, Gondolin, Humor, M/M, My Slashy Valentine, Sparring, hot elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfscribe/pseuds/elfscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel knows that his clandestine affair with King Turgon will cause a scandal if discovered, especially since the King has outlawed all sexual relationships. But when Glorfindel seeks to understand his own heart, he discovers how impossible it is to keep secrets in Gondolin’s closed community.<br/>Written for 2016 My Slashy Valentine</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



> 2016 My Slashy Valentine fic swap for Sleepless_Malice
> 
> Request: _Turgon/Glorfindel and/or Ecthelion. Story elements: pining and (partly) unrequited love, first times, jealousy, drama, communication and character building, politics, sparring/training, wine, unhealthy relationships._
> 
> Hi! I think I managed to get all your requests into this fic. My sincere apologies for my long-winded muses. I really hope you like it. 
> 
> Beta: The absolutely wonderful, marvelous Russandol!

_Saw both my life and death_  
_In two lines_  
_Felt the kick of fate_  
_There I was invisible_  
_Just out of phase_  
  
_There's no sun, no storm_  
_No time, nowhere_  
_Breathless_  
_For a moment I was_  
_Nowhere_  
_Breathless_

"Breathless” by Small Black

  

Gondolin, First Age 316

******************

Chapter 1 The Morning After

The fog engulfed Glorfindel, dense and impenetrable. The air felt thick. Here and there, he could see skeletal branches festooned with strands of sticky webs. Which way? Ai! Which way? Behind him came a strange tapping sound. Sharp clicks, hollow thuds. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to the string. “Lady Aredhel!” he called, but the sound of his voice fell dead. “Ecthelion, where are you?”

In the distance, high overhead, he heard the high pitched scream of some fell winged thing. A monstrous shadow filled with hungry green eyes loomed in front of him. His sovereign’s voice boomed out, “Why did you return without my sister! You have betrayed my trust and besmirched your honor!”

Stricken to the heart, Glorfindel fled, crashing his way through sharp branches that clung at his clothing. Craven, unmanned! A proud warrior of a proud house, and he’d failed his task. Again! How could he bear the shame of it? Without warning, a wall of white marble materialized out of the mist directly in his path. He turned to the right to avoid it, but the wall kept pace with him, growing and expanding. He sped up, trying to outrun it, but suddenly it bent around directly in front of him so that he crashed into it and was thrown onto his back. A chunk of marble broke off from the impact and fell onto his neck, crushing his windpipe so that he gasped for breath. Hideously, part of him welcomed it.

Glorfindel struggled awake, his heart thumping, and found himself lying face up with the King’s muscular arm resting heavily across his throat. Safe and yet not so. He couldn’t breathe. He grasped the King’s wrist and threw his arm aside, perhaps more abruptly than he’d intended.

“Elenwë!” Turgon muttered in urgent tones, and wrapped his arm around Glorfindel’s waist, drawing him close. It seemed that both of them had been visited by evil dreams.

“My Lord, wake up,” Glorfindel said sharply.

Turgon moaned and rolled away from him. Glorfindel briefly saw in his mind’s eye the horrendous image of Elenwë’s pale face looking up at him through the icy blue water. 

Glorfindel sat up, pinched the bridge of his nose. Mandos, what a headache! He pushed his long, tousled locks away from his face and peered about at the residue of their drunken embrace the night before. The dimly lit room exhibited a mess unbefitting the royal bedchamber. Their sheets had been pushed off the high platform of the bed onto the floor where they lay amidst a welter of clothes, along with a glazed ceramic wine jug, a half dozen bottles, plates hosting the skeletal remains of roasted pigeons, and an incriminating jar of salve. Turgon had rolled onto his back, presenting an elegant profile, his head surrounded by a swath of unbraided black hair. His naked body was as beautiful as ever, but his face looked drawn. His skin appeared grey in the dim light.

Looking at him, Glorfindel’s heart ached, along with his head. He’d done this yet again after he had vowed that he would not. Neither the wine, nor his and the King’s physical needs, frustrated from long denial, were any excuse.

The warrior swung his feet off the bed, landed on the floor with a thump and a twinge of muscles— still sore even a week after the ordeal in Nan Dungortheb. He headed for the shuttered south-facing windows. There would be more pain when the morning sun hit his eyes, but the room was stifling. Craving some air to chase away the dregs of the dream and clear his head of last night’s indiscretions, he lifted the latch and began to draw the shutter away from the window.

“What are you doing!” The voice was cold, imperious.

“Letting in the morning, Túrukáno,” Glorfindel said gently.

“Nay, do not. Fie on another day which brings me nothing but grief. Shut it,” Turgon said. He raised himself on an elbow; his exquisite black brows were drawn together in a pained frown.

“Just a crack,” Glorfindel replied. “I cannot find my clothes otherwise.”

“They’re just there.” Turgon gestured vaguely at the floor. “Even my wine-bleared eyes can tell that, and yours are much keener than mine.”

“For things afar, and sufficiently illuminated. I’m no bat, m’lord, nor a mouse to creep about in the dark.”

The King raked his gaze over Glorfindel appraisingly and his expression softened. “Nay, you are not. You are a ray of sunlight in a dark place.” He groaned, put a hand to his forehead. “What was that vintage we shared, my Lord of the Golden Flower?”

“It was a fine 290, a gift from my own vineyards. I believe it wasn’t the quality but the quantity, my Lord,” Glorfindel said as he cracked open the shutter enough to leave a line of light upon the floor. He picked up his fine linen braies from the pile, drew them on, and tied up the string. By the Valar, he longed for a bath. Distantly he heard the sweet rain of the fountain going off below.

“The quantity, aye. Truer words were never spoken,” Turgon said. He lay back with a thump. “Wine is a fickle curative. Taken in the evening it relieves pain, but the morning after, restores it with a vengeance.”

“Indeed.” Glorfindel paused in the hunt for his clothing. “My Lord, I’ve been thinking. I believe it best if I go back out and search for Lady Aredhel again. It may be that she escaped the sorcery of Nan Dungortheb and went on to Himlad. If I go alone we would not risk losing anyone else. I would seek out Curufin and Celegorm as they may have tidings of her whereabouts. After all, that is where she intended to go.”

“Nay, I will not allow it,” Turgon said, rising up on one elbow and shaking his dark head. “I made a grievous mistake giving Aredhel permission to leave Gondolin, and by so doing nearly lost you all. Since Thingol has decided to be a petulant fool and blame all the Noldor for the errors of my uncle, we cannot go through Doriath, and it’s clear now that crossing Nan Dungortheb is out of the question, what with your tales of the horrors that lurk therein.”

“I could ride north along the Sirion.”

“And travel nigh to Thangorodrim! Too dangerous. What if He captured you? I doubt even you, one of my finest warriors, could resist Morgoth’s ungentle persuasions. And even should you evade His nets, I no longer trust my cousins. They continue to be the most mercurial of Fëanaro’s brood.”

Glorfindel found his white linen shirt wadded up on the floor. “Your grandfather Finwë used to say, ‘We know not our strengths until we face the trial.’” He shook the shirt out with a snap, pulled the sleeves into place and slipped it on.

“Huh.” Turgon moved to the edge of the bed, reached out and took one of Glorfindel’s hands, gently squeezing his fingers. His hand felt soft against Glorfindel’s calluses. “Indeed, he did say that,” Turgon said. “But we’ve already faced trials enough. Laurëfindil, my stalwart, glad am I that you escaped the haunted valley. It was a near thing and I cannot risk any more of my knights. . . . you most of all. I’ve enough of woe to last me a lifetime.”

“Aye, my Lord,” Glorfindel said, lowering his eyes. His hand relaxed in the King’s grip.

Turgon cleared his throat. “I hope that you do not allow the recent . . . unpleasantness to mar our friendship.” He patted the back of Glorfindel’s hand, then let him go.

“Nay, of course not,” Glorfindel said. “You were right to chastise me. It was my fault and no other’s.”

“So you’ve said before all my court. But I know my sister. Ever was she hard-headed and listened to no one. I repent of my harsh words to you. I was torn with grief, and did not give you and Lord Ecthelion and Lord Egalmoth sufficient time to tell your tales. Lord Ecthelion, particularly, was eloquent in your defense, as he always is. You are forgiven.”*

 _But I have not forgiven myself._ Was now the moment to speak to him? To explain in carefully rehearsed words why their particular brand of fellowship could not continue? He’d wasted the opportunity last night. He took a breath. Nay, not yet. Not while their reconciliation was so new. He needed more time.

Turgon rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “It’s hot as Morgoth’s forge in here. It seems the heat has begun early this year.” He waved vaguely in the direction of his antechamber. “Take the back stairs out. My man will be here soon.”

“Do you think your servants don’t know, Túrukáno? With all this evidence before their eyes?”

“’Tis not their place to comment or to speculate,” Turgon replied. “I would keep it that way.”

Glorfindel paused, cleared his throat. “When, um, when shall we . . .?”

“See one another again? Four days hence at the Games after the Gates of Summer ceremony.”

“At the Games, aye,” Glorfindel said. “There is still much to prepare for them.”

“Who is challenging you this year?”

“I believe ‘tis the House of the Harp, but they have yet to deliver the baton,” Glorfindel said. “I suspect they may seek out my team during practice today.”

“You’re my champion and the best Gondolin has,” Turgon said, with a yawn. “You’ll beat them and add to the glory of both our houses.” He smiled thinly at Glorfindel, but there was a wariness in his eyes. “’Twas a good thought to set up the Games. What was it, more than fifty years ago?”

Glorfindel nodded. “I’ve seen the positive effect of it on our warriors. It gives them tangible goals to work for, rather than the abstract one of preparing to do battle with Morgoth. A battle that may never come.”

Turgon nodded. “I pray daily to Ulmo that it does not, that we may remain safe and happy here. To do that we must keep conflicts to a minimum. Salgant seems to be squabbling with Duilin again over grazing rights. Speaking of which, has either of them issued a challenge?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Glorfindel said. “Which is good. Duels rarely solve problems as the loser usually harbors bad feelings.”

There came a loud knock on the outer door of the King’s chambers and then a muffled voice, “My Lord, are you up? It’s Tathar with your posset.”

“I’m still abed. Hold a moment!” Turgon called to the servant, then slid off the bed, lurched to the floor, and felt around for a dressing gown. “Begone!” he whispered

“I wondered if I might have . . . another audience with you. Perhaps after the Games?”

Turgon paused as he drew on the robe. He shook his head. “There were many eyes at the party last night and I fear we were indiscreet. Above all, I do not want this known, Laurëfindil. You can understand that. What is a King who cannot follow his own edicts?” He stretched out a hand and affectionately tucked a lock of Glorfindel’s hair behind his ear. “We must master our passions, my friend. Do not expect that we can do this again, not for a long time. Already I fear . . .”

The tentative knock came again on the door and Turgon made a harsh gesture of dismissal at Glorfindel, who scooped up the rest of his clothes and fled in an undignified manner to the antechamber that held the King’s wardrobe. He hesitated by the back wall next to an immense tapestry which covered up the secret exit, constructed not for assignations such as theirs, but as an escape route for the King who feared becoming trapped in the tower. When he oversaw its construction, Glorfindel had scarcely imagined that he’d be the one skulking down this stair. He lifted the tapestry, pressed the hidden panel on the wall, which creaked open, stepped through, and let it snap back into place.

Standing at the top of the spiraling staircase, he waited a moment until his eyes adjusted to the thin light leaking from a slit in the roof high above, then set about arraying himself as best as he could in the remainder of his clothes. He drew on his linen stockings and attached them to the garters on his braes. Then, his dark green tunic, still unlaced, went over his shirt, and he buckled his belt about his waist. His summer cloak went over that, pinned into place with the broach the King had given him, inlaid with an enameled design depicting the golden rays of Glorfindel’s House emblem. He felt about in his pocket and pulled out a jeweled circlet, which he settled in his hair and over his forehead. Last, he braced himself on the wall as he awkwardly slipped on soft leather shoes. Suitable for an audience with the King, they almost felt like going barefoot compared to his heavy field boots.

With one hand feeling his way along the rough-hewn stone wall, he crept down the stairs. _Just like the mouse that I denied earlier_. _This cannot continue._

Glorfindel descended the dizzy narrow stairway, around and around, until it finally emptied out into an underground tunnel, dark as pitch. Still feeling his way, he followed the tunnel for several hundred feet, then ascended a ladder. At the top, he listened carefully for any stray guards or servants, then pushed up the secret trapdoor and emerged into the dim light of the armoury. Walking the length of the hallway lined with lances, maces, swords, shields, and other weapons of destruction, all of which he could wield quite respectably, he paused before the outer door. Quietly, he opened it. Squinting in the sudden light, he peered out into the King’s rose garden past a cacophony of blooms, pink, yellow, white, and red, that perfumed the air of a beautiful morning. He sighed. There seemed no one about as it was between changing of the guard. He might yet escape unnoticed.

With the sound of crunching gravel underfoot, he paced the walkway winding through the labyrinth of flowers, past one of the smaller fountains happily burbling into the air. There was one more open stretch nigh to the main entrance that he must traverse before he could disappear down a side street and work his way homeward. He was almost out of the palace grounds. The air was growing hotter with the rising sun, so he turned up the edges of his cloak and threw them over his shoulders. Softly, he began to whistle a tune—one of Ecthelion’s favorites from a time long gone.  

“Blessed be, is that you, Lord Glorfindel? Such a surprise, meeting you here this time of day.”

Startled, Glorfindel turned his head and saw Loremaster Pengolodh sitting on a little bench under a shade tree with his harp resting on his lap. No doubt he had been composing a song. He was wearing a bright red doublet richly embroidered with circling birds in gold thread, yellow braes tied at the knee, and tooled leather shoes with toes that came to a point. The musician set his harp aside and beckoned.

This was a most unhappy turn of luck. Pengolodh might be a fine loremaster and singer, but he was also a terrible gossip who loved poking his nose into everyone’s affairs. Well, he’d been spotted. Best to mitigate the damage.

“And a very good morning to you,” Glorfindel said, changing course toward him. “I might say the same, Loremaster. It’s rare to see you about so early after a celebration like last night. I would have thought you’d be still abed.”

As Glorfindel neared, Pengolodh rose and granted him a half bow, then frowned and waved a bee away from his long nose. “On such a beautiful morning? Nay, I was up before the light. I rarely drink to excess since I don’t handle wine as well as I used to back when we dwelt in Nevrast. Still I managed to hang on until midnight last night.” Pengolodh’s eyes crinkled in a mirthless smile. “I wouldn’t dare attempt to keep up with you and the King. You Eldar appear to have an endless capacity.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “You and Turgon seemed to be getting on rather well, especially after . . . well after the manner of your return. It seems he’s forgiven you for losing his sister?” A sly smile flickered across his face as he cast his eyes over Glorfindel, then he schooled his expression, and flapped again at the bee, who seemed enamored of the glittering gold thread in his doublet.

“So, he says,” Glorfindel replied. “He kept me up far into the night discussing matters of security, and I fear I didn’t follow your wiser example of restraint when it came to the drink. The King kindly put me up in one of his guest bedrooms to sleep it off.”

“Matters of security and which ones might those be? Aren’t we securely hidden with no possibility that He might find us? Or did your foray into the outer world upset the equilibrium?”

“I have no call to believe that the Enemy knows aught about our hidden realm,” Glorfindel snapped. He added a lilt of warning to his voice. “As his Master of Arms and among the first in many years to venture out into the wider world, we had much to discuss.”

“No doubt,” Pengolodh replied. The bee had left the Loremaster in favor of buzzing Glorfindel’s broach and then circling his head.

“Our pollinator appears to love your hair’s brightness. It does indeed shine like gold in the morning light. ‘Tis said that you are numbered among the King’s treasures.”

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes at him. His tone tread the narrow line between sycophantic and insolent. “I live to serve my realm, Pengolodh,” he replied.

“Of course you do and well indeed do you serve it. Speaking of your hair, I can’t help but notice that your coif is dressed a bit less . . . decorously than was the case last night.”

Glorfindel resisted the impulse to reach up and touch his hair, which had come loose from his usual braids. “If you’re saying, my dear Ballad-master, that I’m in want of a comb — that would be true. As I have told you, I didn’t intend to pass out. I freely admit my indiscretion.” Time for a parry. “Pray, tell me, what is it about this location so far from your house, that attracts your attention so early in the morn?”

“Ah, well, I find this spot seems to have an almost magical effect upon my invention. So peaceful and full of beauty.” He waved at the garden and the spectacular view of the snow-capped mountains that surrounded them. “I’m working on a hymn for the Gates of Summer Festival. Care to hear it? Of course it’s not yet complete.”

“Pray excuse me, for now, my dear Loremaster. I apologize for having disturbed you while in the throes of divine inspiration. I am due home to eat and prepare for training my warriors for the Games. I shall be privileged to hear it during the Morning Song.”  Glorfindel inclined his head.

 “Oh, aye of course,” Pengolodh rumbled. “And I’ll be sure to compose a song or two in the King’s honor.”

“I'm sure he would be pleased,” Glorfindel said. He walked away, resisting the temptation to look back. A good place for composing, my arse, he thought. It was a strategic spot for watching who was coming and going from the palace, since this pathway intersected with the one coming from the main gate.

   ***********

 Notes:

Tathar (S) willow

 *Egalmoth is named as Aredhel’s third escort in The War of the Jewels, Part Three, “The Wanderings of Húrin and Other Writings, III. Maeglin.”

Thanks so much to Heartofoshun for providing me with the text. *g*


	2. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel discusses politics with his housekeeper and remembers how both he and Gondolin came to their current straits.

Cursed be his luck of running into Pengolodh, Glorfindel thought, as he hurried through the service alleys toward his house. He should never have slept so late!

The air smelled cool and fresh. The glow on the horizon cast a rosy blush on the snow-covered peaks of the surrounding mountains, and on the city walls and spires. But down in the service lanes, the light was still dim enough to afford some cover. The ash and nightsoil workers were out with their wagons, knocking on doors and accepting the covered ceramic jars, which then would be carted out and dumped on the fields to ensure their fertility. As Glorfindel approached, he drew his hood up to cover his tell-tale banner of golden hair. Busy at their tasks, the workers paid him no heed.

Just as Glorfindel reached his home, Anor cleared the mountain tops flooding the Tumladen with light. The House of the Golden Flower with its main hall and adjoining structures was built in ascending tiers upon a hillock on the southwestern side of town and abutted the great wall that encircled the sheer rock promontory upon which Gondolin was built. His house was topped with a slender spire, which afforded Glorfindel a view of the entire city. It was surpassed in height only by the Tower of the King.

Upon approaching the servants’ gate at the back of the compound, Glorfindel heard the goldfinches chattering in one of his gardens, and more distantly, the tramp of the morning patrol resounded along the road that ran atop the wall. He entered through the postern gate where deliveries were made, and went past the servants’ quarters.

At the bottom of the stairs, he ran into Amarthiel, who had charge of his household. She was dressed in her blue wimple and darker blue tunic, belted by a chatelaine that jingled with useful tools. Amarthiel was short of stature but more than made up for it with her take-charge personality. She frowned her disapproval at his appearance. Glorfindel was quite certain she knew. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t approve of himself either.

“Good morn, Amarthiel,” he said, as brightly as he could manage.

“And good morn’ to you, my Lord. You’re either up quite early, or more like, never slept. I see you’ve saved me the work of making up your bed.”

“The King and I stayed up late discussing Gondolin’s future. I slept a few hours on one of his couches.”

“Hunh,” she said. “And was his couch responsible for putting your shirt on inside out?”

Glorfindel looked down, and flushed as he noticed the exposed seams of his linen shirt. “Um,” he said, and then remembered Pengolodh’s sly smile. “Damn it all to wrath and ruin!”

“What happened? Hold still a moment.” Amarthiel selected a pair of small scissors hanging from her chatelaine and efficiently snipped a hanging thread on his sleeve.

“I ran into Loremaster Pengolodh as I was leaving the palace just now.”

“You don’t say.” She dropped the scissors, which swung for a moment from her belt. “Not wise, my Lord. The state of your garb is like to be known halfway around the city by now.”

“So I fear,” Glorfindel said. “I gave him a perfectly good explanation for staying the night at the palace.”

She tilted up her chin to look him in the eye. “And we know how well that will suffice. Let us hope nothing comes of it. No one is immune from the King’s edict and there are plenty of sour creatures in this town who love nothing more than to catch others out. Now then, I have some news before I send you up to your chambers to dress properly for breakfast. While you were out last night, Lord Ecthelion came by.”

Glorfindel looked at her intently. “What did he want?”

“I had the impression he wanted to be sociable. I reminded him that the King had sent for you last night and then I regretted giving him the news, as apparently he was not invited. He seemed a bit . . . downhearted.” She pursed her lips. Ecthelion was a favorite of hers and she disliked any hint that he was not equally loved by others.

Glorfindel nodded. He too regretted that Ecthelion had not been present last night. Perhaps under his old friend’s discerning eye and good sense, he would have gone home earlier. “It was a small party,” he said. “I’m sorry to have missed him. It can’t be helped. I’ll be gone all this afternoon as well.”

“Ah, you’ll be at the training field,” Amarthiel said.

“Aye. We must keep these restless young men occupied or they do naught but cause mischief.”

Amarthiel made a face. “I know ‘tis impolitic of me to say this, but it’s certain the Edict makes for a bunch of lusty young fellows spoiling for a fight. I see them provoking each other in the taverns.”

Glorfindel sighed. “It does at that, and I told the King it would when the Council determined we had no more room in Gondolin.”

Amarthiel nodded. “He thinks we can redirect those desires into work, and crafts, games, and weapons practice. Alas, in my experience, those measures are only partially successful. Despite what some of our loremasters say, elves are sensual creatures.”

“Never fear,” Glorfindel chuckled. “I’ll work the foolishness out of them this afternoon, so they should be quite docile for a few hours at least. You know many of my charges were born here and have never seen the outside world. ‘Tis hard to get them to treat this seriously.”

“All this fear and waiting and preparing.” Amarthiel shook her head. “There are days, my Lord, when I could almost hope that Morgoth would learn our whereabouts, so we’d be able to flee this place.”

Glorfindel frowned. “You can’t mean that.”

“Nay, I don’t.” She bit her lip. “It’s a good life we have here, but I’m wondering if this was the best strategy for us. Being confined such that the whole world has narrowed to the valley below and the peaks above. Where the look of every stone and furrow is burnt in the mind’s eye. For years before we came here, we had no permanent home and wanderlust in our souls. I think we have become bored.” She squinted accusingly at him. “Bored does not make for sharp reflexes. It can also cause one to do foolhardy things.”

“You speak the truth.” Glorfindel smiled at her, which was usually enough to win her over. “Well, then perhaps you need some more work to ward your ennuie. I require a bath—a hot one.”

She leaned forward and sniffed at his chest. “I approve of that notion. I’ll see to it immediately. Is your shoulder still sore? I could send up Ferindil to work on it for you.”

Glorfindel thought, _I’m sore in places he cannot mend._ “After my bath, aye, that would be good. And please send up your special tisane along with a shot of brandy. I have a . . . headache.”

She clicked her tongue, but there was affection in her eyes. “One dose of my special morning-after curative coming up. I believe our sovereign is a bad influence on you.” She patted his arm.

“Hunh,” Glorfindel said. A sound that neither confirmed nor denounced her statement, but he held her wise old gaze and gave the barest nod.

 

******************

Glorfindel eased himself down into the steaming marble tub, welcoming the relaxing heat. He lifted the cup of Amarthiel’s hangover cure from edge of the tub, and took a sip. _Ugh!_ He made a face, then set it back. He would wager Amarthiel made it bitter on purpose.

The bathing chamber was perfumed with the earthy smell of peat burning in the stove at the other end of the room – a homey smell. Overhead, the elaborately carved beams, built when timber was still abundant, writhed with painted vines that sported red and yellow flowers on a background of green. Between the vines, birds flew in swooping circles. The ceiling was painted to resemble a sky with white clouds.  

Glorfindel leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, and sighed. How had it come to this? The proud Noldor scattered and hidden in secret realms, preparing for an inevitable doom, surrounded by walls of their own making. Walls that included invisible ones wrought of custom, law, and necessity. And he himself existed in a tiny walled garden of _his_ own making, protecting a secret while guarding his heart. _Our actions take on a life of their own and lead one inevitably to the present moment._ So he remembered Ñolofinwë saying the morning Fëanáro abandoned them and they made the decision to cross the frozen wasteland of the Helcaraxë by foot.

His current plight with his King went back over four hundred years when he dwelt in Valinor, to a time when he was called Laurëfindil. Then, he was but newly come of age. His father sent him to be fostered in Túrukáno’s household. Glorfindel felt the honor and responsibility acutely. It wasn’t long until he came to worship his beautiful, fierce lord, and followed him about like an unwhelped puppy, eager to prove his worth. He’d wanted nothing other than to bask in Túrukáno’s presence, to earn his trust and his love. That fated day when Fëanáro defied the Valar and spoke The Oath, and Túrukáno followed him, Glorfindel went along without questioning.

That decision had brought all the days that followed up to the present moment soaking in a tub, sore from his Lord’s appetites. He had to admit now, what he had not then. He’d been infatuated with a man who he saw as beautiful and wise, but was inaccessibly married. The role Glorfindel could play was champion and protector, and to that role he swore to adhere, unswervingly.  

Then came terrible days after — days of savagery and bloodshed that made him wonder why he was still sane, culminating in the desperate journey over the frozen wasteland. If he closed his eyes, he could still see that landscape—so white that it burned the eyes—perilous snow-covered fields that stretched endlessly to the horizon. And over that evil land, the frost-ridden Noldor had struggled doggedly, their ragged cloaks blowing in the icy wind. He remembered the keen air, and the smell of the wool blanket wrapped about him, ice hanging from his nose and hair, and the weight of the knotted rope he kept coiled over his shoulder. He remembered biting wind, as he stumbled along on feet that he could no longer feel, forcing his limbs to move through sheer will— and the love of his sovereign.

Then came that evil day. Túrukáno was ahead of him, floundering through snow and Elenwë led them both by a few yards. Glorfindel struggled to keep up, then heard the sound that would forever haunt his nightmares—a loud crack right under Elenwë’s feet. She stopped dead, turned a terror-stricken face back towards them just before the ice opened up under her weight. With an anguished cry, she slid into the water. She tried to grasp the edge of the ice to haul herself back out, but it broke apart under her hands, and with a splash, she fell back into the icy sea. At first, shocked into stillness, Glorfindel could not move his sluggish limbs.

‘Elenwë!’ Túrukáno roared, as he ran towards her. He threw himself down, arms and legs splayed so as to spread out his weight and reached for his wife’s outstretched hand. Elenwë’s lips were blue and cracked, her eyes surrounded by dark circles, her hair frozen in place. Strange noises came from her throat as if it had frozen shut. Túrukáno inched forward; their fingertips touched. With a supreme effort he stretched and grasped her hand, and tried to pull her out.

Glorfindel became aware that others had run up beside him, then halted as the deadly cracking sound multiplied, reverberated. He was the closest; it was up to him. He found himself moving, swinging the rope over his head and then letting it fly towards her. ‘Here, my Lady!’ he called. The knotted end of the rope plopped into the water near Elenwë’s head. Túrukáno grabbed it up and tried to wind it under her arms. But the treacherous ice split again, dropping him into the water nearly on top of her.

‘My Lord!’ Glorfindel cried. Thrashing, Túrukáno tried to push his wife up onto the bank, but could not.

Gasping with the exertion, Glorfindel tied the rope around his chest, under his arms. ‘Take this!’ he yelled to Duilin who had come up behind him, and he thrust the end of the rope into Duilin’s hands. Then, Glorfindel fell to his stomach, pulling himself along on his forearms. Underneath him, the ice crackled and moaned. As he approached the black pool of seawater, he could see both of them struggling, splashing about. Air bubbled up around them, and their garments wreathed on the surface. Both were sinking fast. Glorfindel had to make a choice. He knelt by the black hole in the ice, and with both hands, he grabbed his Lord by his collar. He didn’t know where the strength came from, others had claimed it was Valar-given, but with one mighty jerk, he hauled the King out of the death trap, and onto the ice beside him. Then, he turned back, reached down, flailed his hands about in the water, grabbed at a scarf and pulled and it came up in his hands. Nothing.

Trusting Duilin’s hold on the rope, Glorfindel leaned far out, knowing the ice could shatter at any moment. He plunged his head into the water. Elenwë was about six feet below him. Her eyes looked up at him, terrified. She reached out a hand, before the blackness of the water closed over her head and there was no more anyone could do.

Beside him, the King was sobbing in great heaving gasps and Glorfindel realized that his own hot tears were crawling down his frozen cheeks. He couldn’t feel his hands at all. Another deafening crack, followed by pops, and the ice broke around them, tilting them both into the freezing brine. Glorfindel seized Túrukáno about the chest and held him tightly, as he felt the jerk-jerk of the others hauling on the rope that brought them both to safety.  

It had begun that night, truth be known. The bond of flesh, augmented by grief. The others had stripped them of their clothes and put them under furs in a make-shift tent so that they might warm each other, else it might mean death for them both. And there they had stayed for a day and a night. In the dark with the sound of the wind howling like a thousand lost souls, Glorfindel revived and found himself pressed naked against his idol, who still felt cold to the touch. Was he dead? He put his fingers to his neck, detected a pulse and realized that he must warm him somehow. It was a desperate measure, but not so hard for one who had hungered for this very thing. He took Túrukáno in his arms, wrapped his legs about him, and kissed him hard until Túrukáno’s lips moved against his own. Their mouths opened to each other as their flesh engorged and their bodies were claimed by need. They began to rock together. As their efforts increased and their bodies warmed, it grew hot under the furs. It was a fight for life, celebrated in unthinking carnality. The pitch of it increased, a mad frenzy as Túrukáno thrust between his thighs, then groaned loudly. Glorfindel felt the pulse, hot and sticky. Shortly thereafter Glorfindel followed. As they lay holding each other in the dark, Glorfindel was overcome with a complexity of emotions. Gratitude, grief. Shamefully, some of what he felt was joy.

But Túrukáno began to weep. ‘Why, Laurëfindil? Why did you fail me so? You should have rescued _her_. Not me. Not me.’

The pain of that memory, his terrible choice and the guilty aftermath, were as sharp as when it had first happened, so many years ago. Troubled, he sat up in the tub, reached for the soap, and began to wash under his arms. His head still ached with last night’s folly.

That was a turning point in his life and through all the trials and battles that followed, they had not spoken of what had happened in that dark night on the ice. In Nevrast, as Turgon’s guard, he watched as the King sank into gloom, although to the rest of his followers, Turgon maintained a stalwart face. Between them was always the tension of an intimacy shared that could not be acknowledged. Then came the sign from Ulmo and the decision to escape from the larger world to the hidden vale. For a time, it lifted Turgon’s hopes and filled him with purpose.

Thus for many years, Glorfindel’s days were full of plans and building. He stood at the right hand of the King, aiding in the construction of their city—an imitation on a smaller scale of fair Tírion. And during that time, he became aware that Turgon’s eyes followed him everywhere.

When Gondolin was finally complete, Turgon held a great feast and invited all to attend. There was drink and food and merriment. In the wee hours of the morning when Glorfindel came to take his leave, Turgon bade him stay. And Glorfindel did.

Afterward Glorfindel would remember that night as filled with the scent of roses, as passionate an interlude as he had ever longed for. But the next morning when they awoke in each other’s arms, Turgon turned away his face and would not speak. Ashamed, Glorfindel left by way of the secret stair he had ordered built. Later, when he attempted to talk about what they had become, Turgon said that there was nothing to it but mutual release. There could never be anything more, since by custom, his marriage bond outlived his wife’s death. Glorfindel argued that this was an insane thing to ask of their people. He simply could not believe that the Valar truly meant for an elf who had lost a spouse to live alone for all eternity. After all, the Valar had not objected when Finwë had remarried. In fact, Glorfindel pointed out, Turgon would not exist if Finwë had adhered to those strictures. ‘True enough,’ Turgon said ‘But perhaps it would have been better so. Much sorrow has come of Grandfather’s decision.’

And so their trysts continued in darkest secrecy, always on Turgon’s terms. He was King of their hidden realm after all — who was Glorfindel to protest? Truth be known, he yearned for their couplings like a drunkard craves wine. But every time their love-making was over and he was sober again, logic said to end it, while his heart longed for the joy he could find in the King’s embrace. Often months would pass, sometimes a year, and Glorfindel would think Turgon was finished with him. But then there would be a late night discussing the business of the city, along with too much wine. The King would reach for him, and the pattern would begin anew.

Then fifty years ago Gondolin’s population reached a critical thirty thousand souls, which precipitated a problem Glorfindel had long foreseen.* As a consequence, his frustrations became those of all the city’s residents. Gondolin was teaming, as more and more space was filled by the extended compounds of the growing families. Fewer resources necessary for living, particularly timber, had forced changes such as the use of sheep dung and peat for firewood. Fights among the various houses over grazing and farmland finally forced the King and the heads of the other nine** houses in Gondolin to confront the problems.

The King convened a Council during which they parried the issue back and forth. But the cold fact was that the valley, as rich in soil and minerals and timber as it was, could never hope to sustain an ever-increasing population without outside trade. So, it was either allow trade, which would render their secret location no longer secret; quit the Valley and slink back to Nevrast, there to await annihilation by Morgoth’s forces; or limit the population.***King Turgon took the third option. There were to be no more marriages and no more children. Illicit assignations were punishable by house arrest and second offenses could get one thrown out of the city or assigned to the nightsoil workers. Already there was a hamlet at the foot of the mountains composed of a dozen individuals who had disobeyed Turgon’s edict.  

Glorfindel had been against the ban, citing the difficulty of suppressing the body’s natural impulses. He well knew how strong such desires could be. He’d been outvoted.

The results of this were manifold. Tensions ratcheted up around the city, which the King and his counselors had to find ways to release. They did this through the games that pitted one house against one another in sport. If someone had an unresolvable grievance against another, he or she could cry a challenge, which combatants would fight according to strict rules. The winner set the terms for the resolution of the dispute.

Those were the official responses. Unofficially, there came to be a tacit acceptance of sexual relations that did not result in forbidden children, especially between elves of the same gender. If caught, the offenders were subject to public ridicule, and often provided a source of bawdy humor in the taverns. Nevertheless, nature being what it was, such relationships flourished.

The water in the bath was growing tepid; soon he’d be forced out. Glorfindel drank the rest of Amarthiel’s brew. Wincing, he chased the concoction with the glass of brandy, which he slammed down in three large gulps. Warmth oozed slowly up from his stomach to envelope his limbs. The hair of the dog, so it was said. Much better. His head was beginning to clear.

He reflected that the enforced isolation had made the Gondolindrim insular, bored, and as prone to gossip as sparrows. Some of them seemed to live for scandal. Glorfindel knew there had been speculation about his relationship with the King already. It would not take much to set tongues wagging. The stakes were high. For, as Turgon himself had said even that morning, ‘What kind of a King cannot obey his own edicts?’ What indeed? And what could be said of a lord of a great house who abetted that deception? To this, Glorfindel had not the answers. He only knew he’d been party to duplicity and hypocrisy and it did not sit well with his conscience.

Two years earlier, Glorfindel had made a concerted attempt to break it off and told Turgon they could never lie with one another again. Stone-faced, Turgon had agreed. Afterward, the tension between them had built and Glorfindel believed that their estrangement had played a role in the King making him one of Aredhel’s escorts. It culminated in Turgon’s vicious tongue-lashing eight days ago, when he returned, having failed his King yet again. ‘You have betrayed me!’ Turgon roared at him before all the Council. Those words had cut Glorfindel to the quick. Then, last night, they’d reconciled—again.

He’d gone over all of this history until his head was sore, and still no answers seemed possible, aside from the one where he broke finally and permanently with the King, either through death or desertion. Neither were palatable.

Having finished washing, Glorfindel slid back down into the water and contemplated his ceiling. The work was beautiful, painted by a master craftsman. His eyes followed the endlessly repeating designs. Circular patterns that went nowhere. Just like his life.

A knock came at the door, and Glorfindel answered. Ferindil stuck his dark head in. “Are you ready for me, my Lord?”

“Aye. Come in.” Glorfindel got up with a swoosh of water, stepped out of the tub, and allowed Ferindil to wrap a towel about him, pat him dry, and then walk him over to the padded table, where he lay down. There was a pop of a seal being opened and he smelled orange-scented linseed oil just before Ferindil’s warm hands glided over his arm and shoulder and then pressed in.

“Uh,” Glorfindel grunted. The pain felt torturously exquisite.

“Too much?” Ferindil asked, pulling back.

“Nay, more pressure,” Glorfindel replied. “I can withstand it.”        

 

*********************

Notes:

Amarthiel (S) Amarth means fate or Amarthiel fated daughter. Glorfindel’s housekeeper

Fëanáro (Q) Fëanor (S)

Ferindil (S) lover of beech trees. Glorfindel’s body servant

Ñolofinwë (Q) Fingolfin (S)

*Re: Gondolin’s population estimate. Thirty thousand is a low estimate. Tolkien says Turgon sent 10,000 warriors to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (Battle of Unnumbered Tears) so allowing for half the population to be women or children, and a percentage of individuals not trained for battle and/or staying behind to keep Gondolin functioning, at minimum the population had to be 30,000. I’d say 40,000 is more likely. But that seems an inordinate number for the vale of Tumladen to support.

**Note on Houses in Gondolin at the time of this story.

Tolkien says Gondolin had twelve Houses that included the House of the King (Turgon). I have described the King as having a Council composed of the heads of **nine** other houses. Here’s my reasoning. Two of the twelve Houses described in the “Fall of Gondolin” in  The Book of Lost Tales 2 were headed by men who have not yet appeared in this narrative: Maeglin and Tuor. So, either the heads of the House of the Mole (Maeglin) and the House of the Wing (Tuor) died and the households were put under the care of these other men when they appeared, or they established their own Houses. I’ve decided it was the latter.

Houses of Gondolin:  
The King - Turgon  
Golden Flower - Glorfindel  
Fountain - Ecthelion  
Heavenly Arch - Eglamoth  
Tree - Galdor  
House of the Pillar & House of the Tower of Snow - Penlod  
Harp - Salgant  
Hammer of Wrath - Rog  
House of Archers - Duilin  
Mole - Maeglin  
Wing - Tuor

***Regarding elven fertility. I know that in “The Laws and Customs among the Eldar,” Tolkien says that elven children are usually born shortly after marriage and that although it’s still physically possible to produce children after that, elves lose interest in doing so. It seems to be Tolkien’s answer to why the virtually immortal elves don’t overrun Middle-earth. There is also a line that some fans have interpreted as the ability of elves to control their fertility, “For with regard to generation the power and the will are not among the Eldar distinguishable.” My reading of this is Tolkien is not saying elves could magically prevent a child from being conceived but that the desire for sex is not separate from the desire for procreation. And in any case, to my way of thinking, these concepts are mutually incompatible. If the elves can control their fertility, then there would be no need for them to lose sexual desire, which Tolkien clearly says they do. It seems sad that once having offspring, elves are doomed to live an eternity with a beloved spouse with no interest in sharing the joy and affirming intimacy of sex. For the purposes of this story, I am assuming that elves do not have perfect control over their fertility and still experience sexual desire even when told by their King that it’s detrimental to their existence. Besides, what else is there to do for fun in Gondolin?*g*

_“For these reasons it came to pass that the Eldar brought forth few children; and also that their time of generation was in their youth or earlier life, unless strange and hard fates befell them. But at whatever age they married, their children were born within a short space of years after their wedding. For with regard to generation the power and the will are not among the Eldar distinguishable. Doubtless they would retain for many ages the power of generation, if the will and desire were not satisfied; but with the exercise of the power the desire soon ceases, and the mind turns to other things”._

\- Laws and Customs among the Eldar. Morgoth’s Ring. The History of Middle-earth, vol. X. Ed. By Christopher Tolkien.Boston, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1993. p. 212-213.


	3. Wasters and Rhymers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When members of Salgant’s House deliver a challenge to Glorfindel’s team, he learns that rumors are flying in Gondolin.

The dusty field near the Lesser Market in Gondolin resounded with the dull clacks of the wasters—the wooden longswords used for practice. Glorfindel stood on the edge of the ring watching his fourteen nearly naked trainees sparring with each other. Most of them were veterans of the King’s Games—trials that he and Turgon had established to create camaraderie among the combatants and healthy competition between Houses. His team had six acknowledged champions who had acquitted themselves well, others that had nearly reached the champion level, and a few young hopefuls just starting out. Since the afternoon sun was hot, they had all stripped down to braes, helms, shin and arm guards. Their sweat-glistened limbs and rippling muscles were not an unpleasant sight. Not at all. 

Glorfindel lifted his gaze to the encircling mountains and dearly wished for a breeze, but a fact of life in secluded Gondolin was that the winds didn’t often make it into the valley—which was good in winter, not so good in summer. He glanced back at his charges. In the heat of the day, the team seemed grumpy and lethargic. Well, he wasn’t having it. 

“Ack! Cúrondil, don’t bring your feet together like that!” Glorfindel yelled. “Always turn your back foot at an angle to your front.”

The young man paused and lowered his waster. The point scraped the dust of the practice arena. “I don’t see why,” he complained.

“Hah, greenling,” said Medlin, a burly fellow, but an expert swordsmen despite his bulk.

“Come here,” Glorfindel beckoned. “Halt, all of you and observe.” Through the metal bars of his face mask, he watched the sulky lad approaching. Cúrondil was the son of Candoron, a member of Glorfindel’s house. Barely forty years old, handsome, and a bit full of himself, Cúrondil was a novice with much to learn. 

“Guard!” Glorfindel snapped and the young man moved into Standing Oak position* with both hands on the handle of his practice longsword, held at his waist against his hip, blade tilted up. Glorfindel went to Swinging Gate posture, his waster blade lowered and held to the side. It was an open, inviting stance. “Now then, Cúrondil, come at me.” 

The youth hesitated a moment and looked around. By now the rest of them had formed a large semi-circle around them. The excitement had picked up.

“Ah, you can take him,” called Broneg. He was Cúrondil’s older brother, a tall, lanky elf with buttery yellow hair, skilled with both sword and bow. 

Medlin shook his head. “Hardly,” he said. “Our Lord Glorfindel is the best fighter in Gondolin.”

Broneg said, “I’ll wager Rog Camdring of the Hammer of Wrath would provide a challenge. I saw him at his forge the other day. Frightening!”

“Enough speculation about my prowess,” Glorfindel said. “Cúrondil, I gave you an order. Do you think an orc would stand around waiting for you to get up your nerve?”

Cúrondil used the back of his arm to wipe off his glistening forehead, settled into position and then came at Glorfindel with a yell. He raised his blade and swung at him with considerable power. Glorfindel met the blow and pushed it back, then quick-stepped to the side. Cúrondil tried to follow him. “Feet,” Glorfindel cried, as he engaged him again. To his credit, the boy tried to change his stance, but not soon enough. Child’s play, Glorfindel thought as he whirled and landed a kick to Cúrondil’s stomach, which made the young man fly backwards onto his rear end. 

“Ho!” the others laughed and some clapped.

Cúrondil sat stunned for a moment with the wind knocked out of him. He held his stomach and coughed. “Not fair,” he growled. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“So, you think there are rules in real combat?” Glorfindel said, standing over him. “Do you wish to learn something or not?” He offered his hand, which the youth took, and Glorfindel hauled him to his feet. As he did, he looked up and noticed eight of Salgant’s boys, the House of the Harp, heading towards them from the direction of the Lesser Market. No doubt they were come to deliver the formal challenge. Good.

“Stance!” Glorfindel ordered. Cúrondil took the position and Glorfindel tapped his back foot to a greater angle so it was perpendicular to his forward foot. “That’s it. Spread your legs wider.” Glorfindel was aware of a titter coming from the Harp cadre, who steadily approached. “Aye, that’s it,” Glorfindel said to his youthful charge. Without warning, he shoved Cúrondil’s shoulder. The lad wobbled, but stayed upright. Cúrondil’s expression of surprise turned into a grin. 

“Now you know the reason to stand that way,” Glorfindel said. “Stability. With your front foot pointed forward and your back at an angle, ‘tis harder to upend you. Do you have it now?”

Cúrondil nodded. 

“I want you to run in proper position, three steps forward, three back, in Standing Oak guard. Do it forty times,” Glorfindel said. “Like this.” He executed the step. “Do it until it feels second nature to you.”

As Cúrondil began the exercise, some of the others laughed.

“Oh ho,” Glorfindel grinned at them. “Do you think you’re immune? All of you will do the same after practice—just before you take a lap around the city.” The laughter turned to groans.

“Hail Lord Glorfindel.” He turned. It was Talagand, Salgant’s oldest son. He was a broad shouldered youth with silvery eyes, short like his father, but he had a powerful arm and often won at javelin toss. He favored them with a short bow, just enough to show the respect Glorfindel was due, but bordering on insolence. 

“Talagand,” Glorfindel replied, with a slight inclination of his head. “How fares your father?”

“Well enough to beat you at the upcoming Games,” Talagand said. “Along with all these greenstick warriors who don’t know a proper stance.” The other seven members of Salgant’s House smirked. 

At this Glorfindel’s cadre moved closer.

Glorfindel folded his arms. “Well, my friends, that has yet to be determined, doesn’t it?”

“It does. We came to issue the challenge.” Talagand reached to his belt, unhooked a leather-bound baton painted in the colors of the Harp, and threw it in the dust at Glorfindel’s feet. 

Glorfindel’s men murmured angrily as they closed the ring about him, adopting a protective maneuver. Normally, the baton of challenge was presented with a formal bow. Talagand’s action was completely arrogant.

Everyone grew silent as the elves on both sides waited to see what Glorfindel would do.

Stifling his own anger, Glorfindel inserted the tip of his waster into the leather loop on the baton, picked it up, and held it dangling in the air in front of Talagand as if it were a dead rat. “The House of the Golden Flower accepts the challenge,” he said in cold tones, “in the name of our most honorable King.” 

“Honorable!” sneered one of Talagand’s companions, his cousin, a large copper-haired elf named Tavorion. He spat in the dust. 

There was a collective intake of breath, then shouts erupted from both sides. 

“Take that back!” Medlin roared as he tossed his sword away, and then hauled back and punched Tavorion squarely in the nose. Tavorion’s head snapped backwards. He staggered and Medlin leapt upon him. The next instant they were rolling in the dust, pummeling each other.

“Hold!” Glorfindel cried in a commanding voice. Broneg pulled Medlin off Tavorion, who glowered as he wiped a smear of blood from his nose. Glorfindel wheeled upon Talagand. “What is this outrage? You will tell your _boy_ to apologize for his insult!”

Talagand straightened, tilted his chin up. “We’ve heard . . . things . . . rumors that dispute the King’s honor. And yours. Do you deny them?”

“I know nothing of rumors,” Glorfindel replied scornfully. But he felt a pang in his heart, as if a bowstring had snapped. 

“Go to the Silver Flute this evening,” Talagand said. “And listen to the Bard. There you’ll learn what is being said, and may the Valar help you if it’s true.” He turned on his heel and sauntered off with his troop following in his wake. A short distance away, several of them began whistling a tune, while the others laughed. 

“Filthy pig! I’ll kill him!” Medlin declared, making a lunge in direction of the departing elves, stopped only by Cúrondil and Broneg hauling back on his arms. 

“Kill him in another four days at the Games,” Glorfindel replied. “I’ll help you do it.” He rounded on his team. “Do any of you know about this?”

They shook their heads, all but Broneg, who regarded Glorfindel sheepishly. “I heard . . . something about a song the Bard was singing. I’m sure it’s just malicious falsehood.”

Glorfindel felt sick to his stomach. “What song?” 

Broneg scuffed his toe in the dirt. “It insinuates something unsavory, all in sly and coded words. I daren’t say more, not wishing to spread untruths. We, of course, all know it to be lies, my Lord. We’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” 

“I thank you for your loyalty,” Glorfindel said. “And I appreciate your right hook, Medlin, although I doubt Tavorion did.” He clapped Medlin on the shoulder. One at a time, he held the eyes of each of his team members. “Well, then is that enough incentive to beat the hubris out of the House of the Harp?”

“Aye!” they shouted.

“Then back to practice,” Glorfindel said. 

The steady clacks of the wooden swords took up again with greater alacrity than before. Soon the smells of dust and sweat permeated the air. Glorfindel looked across the city towards the King’s tower. He’d warned Turgon about this very thing. After practice, he would pay the Silver Flute a visit to assess the situation for himself. If true, then he’d have to determine what to do about it. 

****************  
It was dusk when Glorfindel finally returned to his house. He entered, hot, sweaty, and worried, and was met by Ferindil who offered him a wet towel on a tray. “Lord Ecthelion awaits you in the withdrawing room,” he said.

“Oh does he, indeed?” Glorfindel replied as he took the towel, wiped his face, neck, and arms, then put it back on the tray. “Bring a pitcher of water. I’ll see what he wants.” No doubt his old sparring partner had heard the news as well. 

Glorfindel found Ecthelion happily ensconced in an armchair drinking a tankard of wine. As always, he appeared self-assured and cocky. He was dressed in evening clothes of richly died fabric, a dark green tunic, light green breeches, and wearing a filigreed circlet upon his brow, which sparkled like dew in his dark hair. 

When Glorfindel entered the room, Ecthelion raised his brilliant azure-shaded eyes and smiled broadly at him, revealing the dimple in his left cheek.

“May I ask what brings you here?” Glorfindel asked. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Ecthelion said. He took a sip of his wine. 

“Forgive me.” Glorfindel inclined his head as he settled into a nearby chair. “But this has not been a good day.” 

“So I hear.”

“You hear. Is it all over Gondolin then?”

“For the most part, aye.”

Glorfindel thumped his fist on the table. “Not good at all. Thank you, Ferindil.” He accepted the tankard of water from his manservant and proceeded to empty it in long swallows.

“How was practice?” Ecthelion said. “Should I wager on your team or Salgant’s.”

Glorfindel paused, breathing heavily. He wiped his mouth with his hand. “Mine, of course. Practice was good. The House of the Harp showed up and gave my men an incentive to beat the snot out of them at the Games. Medlin took a practice swing at that imp Tavorion. Might have broken his nose.”

“Huh, well ‘tis hot out, not good for tempers,” Ecthelion said. “But hotter in here. I was thinking of taking a walk.”

“Were you?” Glorfindel said. “Where did you think of going, as if I didn’t know.”

“I’ve developed a fancy to go to a tavern and listen to a harpist. He’s said to be quite good and they say he’s composed new material.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel said, “May not be wise—I hear that Lord Glorfindel has a temper.”

“I’ve seen it,” Ecthelion chuckled. “Many a time. Might I suggest that the Lord Glorfindel curb his temper, take a bath, use sweet oil — and dress in something . . . impressive.” 

“Not necessary,” Glorfindel said. “Why not walk into this saucepot of a tavern, bedewed in sweat and dust, right off the practice field. They should remember who they are dealing with.”

“My prince of diplomacy,” Ecthelion said. “Bathe. Dress. I’ll come along and keep you company if you wish.” 

“I’m only going to dump a bucket over my head a few times,” Glorfindel said. “No time for a full bath. Ferindil?”

“Amarthiel and I will see to it,” Ferindil said.

***************  
Shortly thereafter, Glorfindel stood in his bath sluicing water over his body, while Ferindil was poised with more pitchers. 

Ecthelion sat in a nearby chair, gave him a quick glance and then pretended not to look further. “I see all this training has been good for the muscle tone,” he said. “And that you still sport some hefty bruises.”

“I daresay you might still have a few of your own from battling spiders the size of a bloody oliphaunt while chasing after the King’s headstrong sister.”

“Well do I remember,” Ecthelion said. “I would not feel so downhearted about that. It was clear where she wanted to go. I don’t blame her. What was there for someone of her mettle and drive here in Gondolin—especially after the King’s edict? She wouldn’t have found a husband here in any event. Not someone of her equal.”

“You were suggested as a proper match for her, Ecthelion. I wonder why you didn’t jump at the chance.”

Ecthelion laughed. “I heard that said of you as well.” He turned to Ferindil. “You should have heard the talk when the King sent us both out into the wild with her. He affected a high pitched voice, ‘Why should Lady Aredhel have a chance all alone in the wild to woo the most likely bachelors in Gondolin when the King has forbidden the rest of us from enjoying them?’”

Ferindil covered a laugh.

“I wonder how poor Egalmoth fit in with those theories?” Glorfindel chuckled. “His wife still won’t talk to me.” 

“She has naught to complain of,” Ecthelion said. “She got him back in nearly one piece. There now, are you clean?”

“As much as possible,” Glorfindel said as Ferindil toweled him down. “Unless you count the invisible mud being thrown at me as we speak.” 

Ecthelion rose, went over to Glorfindel’s wardrobe, and drew open the doors. As he bent over to examine clothes folded on the shelves, Glorfindel couldn’t help but admire the tight fit of his breeches. Ecthelion straightened up, put his palms together, and raised them to his lips. “Now then, we want the effect to be both sophisticated and intimidating. I think the short-sleeved tunic in deep blue with the silver stars embroidered about the neck and borders, evokes Cuiviénen, don’t you think Glorfindel? Wear it without a shirt underneath—along with the moleskin braes in dun. Dark grey hose in cotton, ‘tis too hot for anything else. We’ll gird your wrists with silver guards and your loins with a silver belt. Upon your brow, the circlet with sapphires. Hair braided back as if going into battle. A matching blue hooded cape overall, good for a bit of discretion. This one is light enough for summer.” He held it out. “That should do it.”

“Good choices, Lord Ecthelion,” Glorfindel said. “Are you sure you haven’t experience as a manservant?”

“Nay, I merely have fine taste, don’t you think, Ferindil?” Ecthelion said, as he winked at Glorfindel.

“Unquestionably,” Ferindil replied.

****************  
Once arrayed, Glorfindel and Ecthelion set off down the avenues towards the Great Market area.

“I fail to see why we need to dress like princes going to a summer festival,” Glorfindel grumbled. 

“Come now, you are a good strategist, so think like one. We need to impress Pengolodh with our wealth and power.”

“Already too late for that. He saw me creeping out of the palace this morning when my aspect wasn’t terribly impressive.”

“This morning? What happened?” Ecthelion bumped against Glorfindel’s arm, as another group of elves crowded past.

“Nothing to tell. I was up late last night, drinking with the King. Passed out. I was leaving early in the morn when I ran into Pengolodh in the southern garden. He must have been crafting his song even then.”

“Was there anything especially noteworthy about your appearance?” Ecthelion asked with the rise of an eyebrow. 

“My shirt was on inside out. I plead an excess of drink and insufficient lighting.”

“Huh,” Ecthelion smiled. “On the contrary, Pengolodh appears to have been most impressed with your fashion sense. I haven’t heard this song yet, but it mentions a mouse who turns his skin inside out after a randy night with an eagle. I wonder why he would want to risk directing slander at the King? He’s not in such high favor that he would be immune to Turgon’s wrath.”

“He’s the Loremaster of Gondolin. If Turgon desires a noble account of himself and his actions, he’d best not anger Pengolodh, something the King is well aware of. Pengolodh has tweaked his nose on other occasions and my Lord chose to look the other way. Turgon confided that if he said anything, it would simply call attention to the man’s cheek. However, if what you’re hearing is true, this marks a new level of arrogance.”

Ecthelion was striding along so close that Glorfindel caught a whiff of his natural scent, warm, pleasing, and familiar. Comforting. 

“Apparently, Pengolodh has a daughter he wants to marry to Rog Camdring’s son, Megildan, and the King’s edict prevents this,” Ecthelion said. 

“The King’s edict has caused much unrest. I told the Council that this was not a good idea. Rather we should rely on self-control to prevent an increase in Gondolin’s population. Elves in love should still be able to marry and enjoy themselves in bed. There are ways to prevent conception.”

“Huh,” Ecthelion said. “Self-control you say. Granted the Quendi have more of it than the Atani, but in truth, not much more.” 

There were several strides of silence as they passed darkened houses. Around them rose the ever-present smell of peat fires and simmering dinners. 

Ecthelion came to a stop, turned and put his hands on Glorfindel’s shoulders. “My good and dear friend,” he said softly. “Tell me, are the rumors true?” 

Glorfindel opened his mouth, hesitated, then looked away.

“Ah,” Ecthelion said. “I’ve thought so, for many a year now. This complicates our response. It wasn’t so bad, I guess before the Edict, but afterwards . . . Well, neither Noldor nor Sindar are much for hypocrisy in their rulers. Nor do we care for same-gender relations, although I fail to see why that offends anyone. As you know, I’ve indulged that penchant myself. But some adamantly oppose it and yammer on about how it’s against the natural order of things. Pengolodh is one of them. No doubt he feels justified in exposing a double standard.”

“No doubt,” said Glorfindel miserably. “What shall I do, Ecthelion?” 

“Ride it out — like a boat through rapids,” Ecthelion said. “We’ll talk more later about the wisdom of continuing this affair. For now, are you planning to deny it?”

“I’ll try neither to confirm nor deny,” Glorfindel said. “I do not wish to add falsehoods to my sins. And I have told myself everything you might say about the folly of my actions. But the King will never confess, not to anyone. He’s consumed with guilt.” 

“I’m at your back,” Ecthelion said. “In all things.” 

“As ever, my friend,” Glorfindel said. “Let us confront the singing Balrog.” 

“Hah!” Ecthelion grinned. “A fitting moniker.”

********************

The Silver Flute was a popular drinking establishment located just off the Great Market of Gondolin. Ecthelion and Glorfindel watched it for a while from across the street and noted that it appeared to be doing a brisk business. “A group approaches,” Ecthelion said. “Appears to be of Duilin’s House. They should be sympathetic at least. Let us mingle with them so that we aren’t noticed. Hoods up.”

They both raised their hoods and pulled them low over their faces so that they were somewhat disguised, then sauntered across the street to blend in with a group of young men and women from the House of the Swallow. Duilin, the head of the House, was one of Glorfindel’s friends. A tall young woman standing next to them also had her hood drawn low over her face. She looked familiar. Moving close, Glorfindel nudged her. She looked up at him, startled.

“Shhh,” she put her finger to her lips and gave him a tentative smile. 

It was Idril, the King’s daughter. No doubt she’d heard the rumors as well. Glorfindel had great admiration and respect for her. She was not only beautiful, but wise, and kind. At one point, there had been talk in Gondolin of Idril as a possible match for him, but given Glorfindel’s relationship with her father, not to mention his sexual proclivities, and the fact that Idril had never shown an interest in him, it was out of the question. He was secretly relieved that the King’s edict took him out of the marriage market. 

The tavern was built about an open courtyard with a large firepit in the center, which was burning real hardwood — hickory, by the smell. Next to the fire was a red settee. On the tiles next to it stood Pengolodh’s great harp. 

Pengolodh was leaning against the bar along with his sycophants, a raucous group of elves. The Loremaster wore a dark red robe, embroidered in golden dragons and his river of brown hair was braided into three long plaits twined with gold thread. He was drinking deeply from a mug.

The place was packed with Gondolindrim from all walks of life and the din was formidable. Already the patrons seemed well on their way to liquid insensibility. Across the room, Glorfindel noticed Salgant sitting with his son, Talagand, and his nephew Tavorion, surrounded by others of their house. Tavorion seemed to have developed a well-deserved black eye. 

“D’ye see the House of the Harp over there?” Ecthelion whispered. 

Glorfindel nodded. “This does not bode well. Keep a watch on them.”

Elves jostled each other as they sought tables. Ecthelion and Glorfindel squeezed into benches at a table located slightly behind the singer, and then called for ale, salted wheat cakes, and pickled mushrooms.

Quietly, Idril squeezed in next to him. “Lord Glorfindel, Lord Ecthelion,” she acknowledged them softly in her deep, musical voice.

“Milady,” Glorfindel murmured. “How fares the King today?”

“Well enough, but for a sore head from last night. Truly Lord Glorfindel, you both should temper your appetites.” Idril’s tone was sharp. Did she also suspect? 

“You are right, it was a mistake,” Glorfindel said.

“As for this latest bit of rumor-mongering, most distressing,” Idril continued. “We heard this afternoon. I’ve come to discover if the gossip was true.”

“For that reason we have come as well,” Glorfindel said. 

“I cannot believe Pengolodh would make such an accusation,” Idril said. “Father will not stand to see his name . . . and yours dragged in the dust. But let us see if ‘tis true.” 

“If so, then what?” Glorfindel murmured. Ecthelion glanced at him. His face was troubled. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. 

The Loremaster returned to his place in the courtyard and seated himself upon the bench behind the harp. He put his hand to his breast. “’Tis highly gratifying to see so many of our fair citizens here tonight. Perhaps attributable to the fine ale brewed by the owner, Baimeldir himself. May I introduce my piper, Mornael, and my drummer, Glamhir, who will accompany my next song.” Pengolodh gestured at a woman holding a flute and a hefty man with a drum strapped over his shoulder. “I switch now from the somber mood of my epic, ‘The Seagull’s Cry’ to something light. This next song is a new bit of whimsy in a humorous vein, which already seems to have gained a certain amount of fame, or may I say notoriety, since my first performance this afternoon. I call it the ‘Eagle and the Mouse’ and dedicate it most humbly to our beloved Lord and Sovereign.” 

Pengolodh pulled the harp onto his shoulder and opened with a full glissando across the strings, then began plucking a sprightly melody, which was joined by the drum and the pipe. It was indeed a dance tune in a comedic mode, which meant that it wasn’t to be taken seriously. Glorfindel frowned.

There was once an eagle, a scion of kings  
Who flew ‘cross the sea, west wind on his wings.  
His virtue was great; his leadership strong  
He’d never done anything venal or wrong.  
Until he was tempted by one in his house  
An innocent-seeming golden-haired mouse.  
Who hied from a valley ablossom with flowers  
And played with his waster to while ’way the hours.  
With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle  
With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho!

The eagle went flying o’er a valley so deep  
To search out a bed upon which he might sleep.  
He laid himself upon the fragrant ground  
Amidst the blossoms, golden and round.  
Then late that night into this cosy bower  
There crept the mouse of the golden flower.  
‘Awake, my friend, your appetite prod  
And together we will diddle my rod.’  
With a diddle hey diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle  
With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho!

‘You play the fiddle while I rosin your bow  
If you wax it sufficiently well, it will grow.’  
‘We can’t,’ said the eagle, ‘we’re not of a kind.’  
‘No matter,’ said mousie, ‘a hole we will find.’  
With a squeak and a squawk they practiced all night  
“Til morning dawned fair on a disagreeable plight  
‘I’m stuck,’ cried the eagle, ‘this hole is too small,  
I fear this wasn’t a good plan at all.’  
With a diddle hey diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle  
With a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho!

A chorus of shocked gasps and titters erupted around the courtyard. Across the way, Salgant’s many chins jiggled with laughter. Glorfindel felt heat creep over his face. He had to admit the tune was catchy and the poetry, while a far cry from Pengolodh’s best, had a certain sly humor to it. He might have even enjoyed it if he and his sovereign were not the target. 

“It’s clever,” Ecthelion whispered to him. His mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. Glorfindel snorted, and Ecthelion said, “Nay, I don’t mean it’s good, because it’s not, but how can anyone get mad at him for a dodgy bit of doggerel like this?”

“He’s making a mockery of me and the King and everyone knows it,” Glorfindel whispered. “I don’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the mouth.”

“It’s disgusting,” Idril said on his other side. “And outrageously disrespectful.”

At this, Glorfindel pulled back his hood and sat there with his arms folded. He heard murmurs as people in the vicinity noticed him. Looking behind him, he saw Medlin, Cúrondil, and Broneg. Medlin caught his eye and nodded at him. Glorfindel felt better knowing they were on his side.

With great difficulty, he kept his temper in check and listened to the entire song, all ten verses, short for one of Pengolodh’s creations, but long enough to establish that the mouse and eagle’s exertions made them so hot that the mouse removed his fur coat, and then when a snake entered the nest to eat the eagle’s sister, the mouse escaped with his coat inside out, with a diddle, hey diddle, hey diddle, hi ho. The intimation that he allowed the King’s sister to perish, rather than be caught himself, was the final slap. Glorfindel felt anger boiling up inside and could barely keep his seat. 

When the song was over, the crowd erupted into a cacophony of clapping, and boos. Many patrons stalked out in a huff. The tension had ratcheted up tremendously in the room. 

Glorfindel thunked down his mug and rose deliberately. Followed by Ecthelion, Medlin, Cúrondil, Broneg, and Idril, with her hood still drawn low, Glorfindel made his way over to the firepit. There was a general scramble while the rest of the audience moved out of his way. From his seat, Salgant gestured and Talagand and Tavorion sauntered over with their thumbs in their belts. Glorfindel glanced around at tense faces waiting for what might follow. 

Pengolodh’s lips curled. “Hail and well met, Lord Glorfindel. I didn’t see you over there—with your various intimates.”

“Apparently I can hide—just like a mouse,” Glorfindel said. 

“What a coincidence, there was a mouse in my song,” Pengolodh said. “This is the second time you’ve crept out of hiding today. I see you managed to don your clothes correctly this time.”

“Your song was an amusing fairy tale,” said Glorfindel. “But others seem to be taking it for something other than that. I’m sure that was not your intention.” 

“I have no power over what others might glean from a bit of whimsy,” Pengolodh said with an airy wave of his hands.

“Loremaster Pengolodh, may I respectively suggest that you are full of shite,” Ecthelion said from just behind Glorfindel. There was a sputter of voices and laughter from all sides. 

“Greetings Lord Ecthelion, the second of the three miscreants who lost the King’s sister.”

Ecthelion’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t there, Pengolodh. I doubt you would have fared any better.” 

Glorfindel had had enough. “Leaving the question about our competence in guiding Lady Aredhel, I think the King might have something to say about your bit of whimsy.”

“And what would he do?” Pengolodh narrowed his eyes. “Forbid it? Pray tell me exactly why he might object to this?”

“As you well know, it references certain Houses in Gondolin. Very powerful houses.”

“Is that what you think?” Pengolodh laughed. “I wonder why? Could it have to do with a guilty conscience?”

“Nay, my dear Loremaster—rather that it amounts to treasonous slander,” Glorfindel said.

“It’s not slander if it is true, Lord Glorfindel. So, tell me why were you an overnight guest of the King when your house is little more than a quarter hour’s jog away? And why have you been observed many times over the years in similar circumstances, always after a late night of hard drinking?” 

“I do not have to explain my innocent associations,” Glorfindel declared.

“If they are so innocent then do now swear an oath that you and the King are not conducting an illegal and tawdry liaison!”

Glorfindel had a terrible urge to pound the Loremaster’s sharp nose into his face. He stepped forward and seized Pengolodh’s robe, while behind him he heard a thump of moving feet. No doubt his men were in position to tackle their antagonists. 

The Bard cried out, “You dare not assault me!” 

Ecthelion pried Pengolodh’s robe from Glorfindel’s fingers and said, “He shall do nothing of the kind, Pengolodh. However, I suggest you modify your song posthaste, so that members of this fair city won’t take the wrong meaning from it.” 

“I require an oath. Failing that, I cry a challenge,” Pengolodh said. He stepped back, looking rather pale, but determined. “Until then, I’ll continue to exercise my prerogative to sing what I wish.”

“You’re crying challenge on Lord Glorfindel?” Ecthelion asked incredulously. “He’d kill you in a heartbeat.”

“I have a champion,” Pengolodh said. “All here in witness, I cry challenge upon Lord Glorfindel to meet my champion in two days time in the arena, at three hours past noon. Winner to submit to the loser’s demands.”

“Who’s your champion?” Glorfindel asked.

“I am,” said a deeply resonant voice behind them. 

Glorfindel and Ecthelion turned as Rog Camdring, chief of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, and a tower of sinewy muscle, slowly rose and clapped his monstrous hands on the table. 

“Valar,” Ecthelion said in Glorfindel’s ear. “This is not good.”

Staring at the immensity that was Lord Rog, Glorfindel recalled being matched with him several times in the Games. Lord Rog Camdring was immensely strong as well as skilled, and likely the only warrior in Gondolin who could beat him. Well, and Ecthelion, if his friend was having a particularly good day. 

At this point Glorfindel was reeling from the public exposure of his darkest secret; the need to pretend it was not so and now the news he’d have to fight a formidable warrior to prove it. A fight he might well lose.

Idril stepped up and pulled off her hood. Several elves gasped and bowed their heads to her. 

“Lady Idril,” Pengolodh said. Nervously, he licked his lips.

She shook her finger at him.“You should be ashamed of yourself, purveying such falsehoods and damaging the reputations of our great King and our faithful Lord Glorfindel!”

“If Lord Glorfindel is so virtuous, Milady, he should have no problem swearing an oath that what I’ve said is wrong,” Pengolodh returned. “However, I believe I have solid evidence. I’ve spoken to witnesses.”

He must have bribed some of Turgon’s servants, Glorfindel thought, furiously. It gets worse and worse.

“Witnesses!” Idril said scornfully. “I must have their names and talk to them myself. Who are you, Pengolodh, to demand an oath on a personal matter like this? You’ve made yourself the judge . . . ” 

“He's a liar!” Broneg shouted. He lunged at Pengolodh. Talagand stuck out a foot and tripped him. Broneg went flying to the floor. Medlin shoved Talagand back into a table, knocking mugs over and splashing wine onto the elves seated there. With alarmed cries, they jumped to their feet.

Tavorion leapt on Medlin’s back, and Medlin whirled in a circle to shake him off. Idril picked up a jug and cracked it over Tavorion’s head. He dropped off Medlin’s back and lay dazed on the floor. In an instant there was a melee of flying crockery and swinging fists. Glorfindel held his arm out to protect Idril, but was shoved back against another table and into a crowd of elves who caught him and pushed him forward. Where had Idril gone now?

Pengolodh had retreated behind his harp, surrounded by his astonished musicians.

Talagand cried out, “Kingfucker,” and kicked Glorfindel in the groin, causing him to bend over in pain and suck in a breath, while Cúrondil elbowed Talagand, who punched Ecthelion.  
At this point Glorfindel’s temper, already bubbling like a pot on the stove, boiled over. He straightened, hauled back, and slugged Talagand in the face so hard that the elf’s head snapped to the side, and he fell to the floor, out cold. Suddenly his father, Salgant was in the fray. He took a swing at Glorfindel who ducked and Salgant instead hit Ecthelion in the ribs. Ecthelion put a foot onto Salgant’s ample stomach and sent him flying up against the wall, where he fell back onto the floor. 

Glorfindel could no longer see Idril, but he didn’t have time to look for her as Rog threw Cúrondil half way across the room and then, with a furious scowl on his craggy face, headed towards Glorfindel. Salgant shook his head, and launched himself back at Glorfindel, while Rog towered over both of them.

There was a disturbance at the back of the tavern and Idril appeared leading six of Turgon’s personal guard, who pushed their way through the crowd. Carrying fighting staffs, they clanked into the courtyard—impressive in chain mail and their surcoats of white, gold, and red, emblazoned with the King’s emblems of sun, moon, and the scarlet heart. 

“Desist at once!” cried a great voice. It was Morgil, Captain of the King’s guard. 

Glorfindel had hold of Salgant’s tunic and was just lifting a fist to punch him. Instead, he threw Salgant back into Rog’s arms.

Morgil and his men were suddenly amidst the combatants with their fighting staffs held ready. Morgil advanced to the firepit where the musicians stood huddled. He shouted, “By the order of the King, Loremaster Pengolodh has been instructed to appear at the palace immediately to answer charges of sedition.”

“Nay, I’ll not answer to tyrants who break their own laws,” Pengolodh said, lifting his chin. Glorfindel had to credit him for audacity. 

“Leave. All of you,” Captain Morgil said with a sweep of his hand indicating the crowd. “This kind of fighting is strictly forbidden. The tavern is closed for a week. If I encounter any further resistance from anyone, you'll spend a month on nightsoil collection duty.”

More shouting ensued, much of it from Baimeldir, the owner of the Silver Flute.

Morgil raised his hands for silence. “The rest of you, I’m willing to forgive this breach of the law if you disperse immediately.” Quietly, Morgil said to his men, “Clear them out. Pengolodh, you will come, willing or unwilling. Your choice.” Two of the guards took hold of Pengolodh’s arms. Morgil turned to Glorfindel. “The King requires you there as well. He wishes to get to the bottom of this matter.”

“My Lord?” Medlin said, with a raised eyebrow. His nose was bleeding, his shirt torn, and his genial face looked grim. 

Glorfindel put a hand on his arm. “Take them all home,” he said. “This does not concern you.”

“But . . .”

“Do as I say,” Glorfindel growled. He turned to Idril. “I thank you, Milady, for your timely aid.”

“Father is furious,” Idril said. Her face was pale, and her grey eyes glittered. “I do not know what the outcome of this will be.” 

I fear it will not be good, Glorfindel thought.

“I’ll meet you later at your house to discuss . . . tactics,” Ecthelion said. 

Glorfindel nodded. “Assuming I am free to return home.” 

Shortly afterward, Glorfindel and Pengolodh were professionally hussled out of the Silver Flute by four of the guards, while two more stayed to push out the patrons. Pengolodh blustered furiously at this treatment until Morgil threatened him with indefinite detainment in the palace keep. Idril came along at Glorfindel’s side. As they marched through the streets which by now were full of curious onlookers, Glorfindel’s fiery ire cooled sufficiently for him to wonder what he and Turgon could possibly say to one another at this point.

**************  
Notes:  
*Re: Names for guard stances in longsword fighting. I’ve invented elvish terms for two standard guard stances. The one I've named Standing Oak is commonly termed the Plough and the Swinging Gate is my name for the Iron Door.

*Note on Talagand’s name. It means harper. Tolkien considered changing Salgant’s name to Talagand, so I’ve given it to his OC son. 

Atani (Q) The Second born, Men.  
Baimeldir (S) fair friend (bain+meldir)  
Broneg (S) enduring thorn (bron +eg)  
Candoron (S) bold oak (can + doron)  
Camdring (S) Hammerhand (cam +dring)  
Cúrondil S)crescent moon friend  
Glamhir (S) noise-master  
Medlin (S) bear-like (honey-eater)  
Megildan (S)Sword wright (megil + tan)  
Mornael (S) black pool  
Tavorion (S)woodpeaker’s son (tavor +ion)


	4. Outcasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To take Glorfindel’s mind off his troubles, Ecthelion takes him on a long walk to the village of the lawbreakers.

Turgon’s guards marched Glorfindel and Pengolodh along the main road from the Great Market to the Palace grounds and then around the tower, through the gardens, and past the King’s Fountain to the main entrance. From there they went up the stairs, headed towards the Throne Room. He’s going to use every prop of power, Glorfindel thought. 

Morgil gave Glorfindel an encouraging nod. They had known each other for years, had fought together. Glorfindel was glad for his support. 

The wardens threw open the doors to the throne room. Built of black marble, the walls and floor reflected the red torchlight. At the far end of the room Turgon sat upon his throne dressed in full robes of state. He was leaning on his sceptre — a gilded staff with a large garnet set in the top — as if he needed it to support the weight upon his shoulders. His mouth was set in a bitter line. 

One look at Turgon’s face, and Pengolodh noticeably blanched. Glorfindel was not sure himself how this would play out, but didn’t hold any hope that it would go well for either of them. The guards came to a halt. Glorfindel and Pengolodh approached the dais and both went down on one knee. 

“You may rise,” Turgon said. He held out a hand to Pengolodh. “My friend, what have I ever done to you that you should seek to besmirch my name and that of my Master of Arms?”

Glorfindel was surprised to hear the King take an aggrieved tone instead of an angry one, but he approved.

Pengolodh kept his head lowered respectfully. “My Lord, only the two of you know if what I have said is true or not. Please consider that I am doing this for your own good and the good of the realm. You must realize that your actions have occasioned unhealthy speculation. It is not wise for a sovereign to hold one set of standards for his subjects and another for himself— not if he wishes to command the favorable regard of his people.”

Turgon’s back stiffened. “The regard of my subjects is not yours to command. Nor to influence. You have made unfounded accusations. You are lucky I’m willing to be forgiving and haven’t ordered you tossed off the cliffs of Caragdûr.”

Pengolodh stepped back and if possible became paler. “Are you threatening me, my Lord?”

“If you wish to think it,” Turgon replied. “Now, I am asking you, as a friend and your lord and sovereign, to recant your slander and consign this . . . speculative doggerel to your poetic trash bin.”

Pengolodh hesitated and his eyes darted from King to the guards and then to Glorfindel, who stood to the side with his arms folded. Pengolodh’s mouth set in resolve as his shoulders squared. “Nay, I cannot,” he said. “I have already publicly cried a challenge on Lord Glorfindel, which he accepted. The law is clear. Neither of us can back out. If he doesn’t wish to fight, it’s a simple matter of taking a public oath in Manwë’s name that what I have said is false.”

Turgon’s scowl deepened, along with the angry red hue of his face. “Is this true, Glorfindel? He made a challenge?”

“I’m afraid it is, my Lord,” Glorfindel said. 

“When is it to take place?”

“Two days hence in the arena. At three hours past noon.” 

“This serves no purpose but to lend credence to your baseless accusation,” Turgon snarled. “I forbid it!” He thumped the sceptre. “Pengolodh, I’m restricting you to your house for an indeterminate amount of time until this nonsense blows over, or you learn wisdom and recant your unfounded lies.”

Pengolodh’s jaw moved sideways. “By so doing, you unwittingly make me a martyr, my Lord. Restricting me will not make this blow over. Rather it will set every tongue in the city awagging.”

“Clearly, I have allowed you too much license in this city,” Turgon replied. His flat voice barely disguised his fury. “You are hereby confined to your house. Do not attempt to leave or I will exact a severe penalty. Captain!”

“Aye, my Lord.” Morgil bowed and then nodded at the other guards. “Take him home.”

“My Lord, there is an old saying, ‘the truth will out,’” Pengolodh said. He inclined his head ever so slightly, then turned on his heel and left between two of the guards. 

Not knowing if his audience was over, Glorfindel shifted his weight from one foot to the other. An intense desire to run home and disappear inside a jug of wine washed over him.

“Morgil, you are relieved,” Turgon said. “I need a moment to discuss this challenge with my Master of Arms.”

“Aye, my Lord,” Morgil said. He bowed low and then he and the remaining guard left. The doors clicked shut behind him.

At this, Turgon let the sceptre clatter to the floor, slumped back in his chair and covered his face with one hand. “We’re undone, and will pay the penalty for our sins. How did he find out?”

“He was waiting for me when I left the palace this morning. Apparently my appearance was in sufficient disarray that it confirmed what he already suspected.”

“By Ulmo, why couldn’t you have been more careful?” Turgon said.

“I was as careful as always,” Glorfindel growled, stricken at the unfairness of it. “But he’d stationed himself on the path where he’d catch me. Pengolodh is right, the truth will out.”

“I’m shocked he made the challenge himself. Pengolodh is no swordsman.” 

“He appointed a champion—Lord Rog.”

“Rog!” Turgon cried. “Can you beat him?”

“It remains to be seen,” Glorfindel said. 

“I can’t go against a challenge,” Turgon said, miserably. “The law is clear.”

“My Lord, there is a more important concern. I am not sure I can defend a falsehood. It goes against my sense of honor. I do not think that Manwë . . . .”

“To Angband’s pits with your honor, Laurëfindil! You should have thought of this before you began this affair!”

“I . . . , my Lord,” Glorfindel said. He swallowed hard. “As I recall . . .”

“You! That day on the ice, when you rubbed up against me after you allowed Elenwë to die!” Turgon roared. “This is your fault alone and now I shall reap the scorn of my countrymen. This might even jeopardize our peace and security—everything we have fought so hard for. If ever you loved me and value your oath of fealty to my House, you will fight Lord Rog; you will defeat him and you will put an end to all these rumors. Once done, as your right of victory, you will require our Loremaster to recant his slander. Do you hear me?” Turgon was breathing hard.

“There is another option,” Glorfindel said between clenched teeth. 

“And what might that be?”

“We could admit the truth of it. Come clean and ask the Gondolindrim for forgiveness.” 

“Nay, never! I cannot appear so weak. I will not and, as you love me, neither will you!”

“I fear your stubbornness will be the death of us all!” Glorfindel said.

“Not another word, treasonous wretch!” Turgon shouted. His eyes blazed in his pale face. “Another King might well have put you to death for losing my sister. I have been far too forgiving of your errors. Go! Be gone from my sight!” 

Glorfindel bowed and then fled the hall, leaving Turgon bent over with his elbows propped upon his thighs, hands pressed to his forehead.

***************  
Both angry and stricken to the heart by his sovereign’s words, Glorfindel headed home as quickly as he could. He was accosted several times by elves he knew who expressed outrage at the Loremaster’s innuendo. Another knot of elves giggled and whispered among themselves as he passed. One member of Salgant’s household actually hissed at him. 

When he reached his house, he was in a fine fettle. He slammed the front door and ordered his door warden to send a cask of wine to his rooms. Glorfindel was deep into his second mug when Ferindil entered with Ecthelion, who was dressed more warmly than the weather required. 

“Are you sure you want to be seen in my company?” Glorfindel growled. “I appear to be anathema in Gondolin.”

“Then we are both outcast. May I share some of that?” Ecthelion gestured at the cask.

“As you please,” Glorfindel said. 

Ferindil poured out a cup for Ecthelion and then bowed and retreated from the room.

Ecthelion settled himself in a nearby chair, took a swallow of the wine, then pursed his lips. “You look as if a rat is chewing on your heart. What happened with the King?”

“Pengolodh is imprisoned in his house until further notice. For all I care, the bastard could stay there until the Dagor Dagorath. He's lucky though. Turgon threatened to toss him off a cliff."

"Well, if the King had actually heard the song, I think he'd have done it. Not for the innuendo, but for the terrible poetry. At least confined, Pengolodh won't continue to entertain the masses with that dross. Did Turgon speak to you?”

“Hunh,” Glorfindel glowered. He took a large gulp.

“It went ill, then,” Ecthelion said. 

“I don’t wish to speak of it,” Glorfindel replied. 

“So, the challenge is still on?”

Glorfindel nodded. “I have been instructed by my King and secret lover to battle a mountain of an elf with hands like hammers to prove to one and all that he and I are not and never have been doing what in fact we’ve been doing—my sense of honor and justice be condemned to Mandos.”

“A difficult situation,” Ecthelion agreed. 

“This offends me to my core, my friend. I see you’re prepared for the weather to turn cold. A vain hope.”

“Nay, rather I want to stretch my legs a bit—this time outside the confines of the city. I think you should come along.”

Glorfindel paused with his cup halfway to his mouth. “Why. What is to be gained?”

“A change of perspective and a bit of fresh air,” Ecthelion said. “Come on. I insist. It’ll do us both good.”

“Where exactly?” Glorfindel said.

“I have an itch to take the pass to the summit of Thôraegas.” 

“I cannot go rambling about. I have obligations.”

“And I promise you, we’ll be back in two days, just in time for you to get smashed about in the arena by our Lord Blacksmith, and if you can still walk, you’ll be able to answer Salgant’s challenge in the Games two days after that.”

“You are not helping.” Glorfindel gave him a wry smile. “Besides my team needs more practice before we’re ready to face Salgant’s men.”

Ecthelion grinned at him. “I’ve asked Duilin to train them until we get back. He was happy to do it. Said getting out of the city was just what you needed.”

“Hunh,” Glorfindel said again.

Ecthelion drained his mug, then set it down on the table. “Humor me, old friend. Call Ferindil and Amarthiel to help make up your traveling kit—another layer of clothes and a warm cloak, dried meat and fruit, and a very large horn of brandy ought to do the trick.”

Glorfindel hesitated, prepared to say him nay, so he could stew in solitude and feel sorry for himself, but when he looked into Ecthelion’s face, with his inviting smile, and those eyes, those amazingly gorgeous eyes that shone like a field of stars on a clear summer’s night, he found that, in fact, he’d like to leave the stultifying city for a time and go exploring with his dearest friend. “Very well,” he said. “I submit to your will. Lead on.”

*******************  
It was late when Glorfindel and Ecthelion with their packs trussed, set off at a brisk pace on the lane that ran along the base of the wall that encircled Gondolin. They reached the main gate, waved at the gatekeeper, then followed the road out of the main entrance that switched back and forth down the face of the Amon Gwareth.* The moon was waxing towards full and provided sufficient light to illuminate their way. It wasn’t long until the city was receding behind them as they tramped the road that ran between the cultivated fields of wheat and barley on one side and vineyards on the other. It was quiet out here, the night marked only by the nightspeech of birds and insects. A pleasant contrast to the ever-present buzz of Gondolin. The air felt cooler and the smell of growing things refreshing. Glorfindel breathed it in and released a sigh.

“You were right,” he said to Ecthelion. “This is just what I needed.”

“Trust me to know you better than you know yourself,” Ecthelion said.

*************  
They took the path that angled towards the base of the Echoriath, the face of the mountains surrounding the Tumladen valley. Eventually, several leagues from the feet of the mountains, they stopped by a dry basin full of low bushes. Glorfindel sat down on a boulder and drank from his water flask. “I’m weary, Ecthelion,” he said. “And hurt in several unhappy places from the fray at the Silver Flute. Could we pass the rest of the night here?” 

“Just a little further, we’ll find a softer bed than this.”

“Where are you taking me, to the outcasts’ hamlet?” 

“You have guessed it,” Ecthelion said with a laugh. “Have you been there before?”

“I have not,” Glorfindel said.

“Then it’s high time. Here, let’s have some music to ease our sore feet or whatever else is hurting.” He pulled a small wooden flute from his vest pocket and proceeded to pipe a cheerful tune.

Glorfindel sighed and rose. They continued down into a fold in the valley where the road came to a small bridge over a rushing stream. There, nestled against the side of a hill was a collection of thatched roofs, with chimneys emitting the homey smell of woodsmoke. 

“Welcome to the village of Thoronsîr,” Ecthelion said. 

As they approached, a dog barked, then others joined in. A silvery light appeared in the window of the closest cottage. They paused on the outskirts of the village and Ecthelion continued to play his flute. A voice called out and the barking ceased. 

In time, a man and a woman plainly dressed in farmer’s garb exited the cottage and approached them. The woman’s dark hair was unbraided and she wore a long shift with a woolen cloak about her shoulders. The man carried a silver lamp in his hand. Glorfindel recognized Voronwë, one of the King’s wardens and his wife Limíriel, both of whom had been banished by the King for conceiving a child after the Edict was in effect. Doubly rebellious, they had produced twins.

“Lord Ecthelion,” said Limíriel. “It’s been a fair spell since ye visited.” She paused and then said, astonished “Lord Glorfindel! What brings you both out here so far from the city?”

“Gondolin is hot,” Ecthelion said. “We’ve a mind to climb yonder peaks, and breathe some fresh air.”

“A good notion,” said Voronwë. “There are times when yon city, as beautiful as it is, can be stifling.” He came forward and took Ecthelion’s hand in his. “Glad am I to see you again.” He turned to Glorfindel. “Both of you. But now ‘tis late and everyone’s asleep. Are you seeking a bed for the night? The cottage is available.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Ecthelion said. “That would be most welcome. We plan to leave at daybreak. We won’t disturb you.”

“Nonsense,” said Limíriel. “We won’t let you leave until we’ve shared breakfast. I know the twins will be glad to see you.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Glorfindel said.

“Anything for our Lord Ecthelion,” Voronwë said. “He’s been kind enough to visit occasionally.” His eyes wandered over Glorfindel. “And bring us much-needed supplies. Limíriel will get you settled.”

They passed a thatched cottage. The air smelled sweetly of new-mown hay. Voronwë turned and bade them good night and then Ecthelion and Glorfindel followed Limíriel up a hill to a smaller cottage. She opened the door. “I hope this will suit, Lord Glorfindel,” she said. “It’s not used much, but it's clean and should serve.” 

The room was small, largely taken up with the double bed covered with a beautiful quilt in a starburst design, a wardrobe, two chairs, and a small bookshelf with a variety of curiosities on it—crystals and stone shells. It smelled dusty with disuse.

“It will be fine, milady,” Glorfindel said.

“I’ll bring you some water to wash with,” Limíriel said, and left. 

Glorfindel and Ecthelion shifted their packs off their backs and set them on the floor. 

“This is an unexpected luxury,” Glorfindel said. “It sounds as if you’ve been out here before.”

“I have,” Ecthelion said. “Voronwë is a friend. You might recall that the King exiled them here.”

“Aye, I do. How long ago was it?”

“Eight years, I believe.”

Limíriel returned carrying a large ewer. She poured the water into a basin and then set some drying cloths next to it. “Be at ease,” she said. “You know where things are, Ecthelion. We have breakfast with the sunrise. You are welcome to join us.”

“You are ever so kind,” Ecthelion said. 

Limíriel ran her eyes over the two of them and the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. “Have a good night, then.”

Ecthelion began at once to undress, draping his cloak and tunic over the back of one of the chairs and then sitting on the other one to pull off his boots.

“There’s only one bed,” Glorfindel remarked. 

“I can sleep on the floor if you like,” Ecthelion replied. Then he grinned. “But I’d prefer not to. I’ve had my fill of sleeping on the hard ground.” 

“There’s truth in that,” Glorfindel said. He paused. “I don’t mind sharing.” As he said it, his heart thumped. 

They both finished undressing down to their braes, then washed their hands and faces. Ecthelion blew out the lantern, and crawled into bed, taking the side next to the window. Glorfindel followed, feeling welcoming sheets slide over him as he lay down on the soft mattress. Some adjustments of position followed as they settled into place on their sides, back to back, bare skin to skin. 

Glorfindel lay stiffly, still sore from his fight in the tavern, as memories of the day tumbled through his head—of waking in the morning next to Turgon with a terrible hang-over; his guilty exit down the stairs and the fated meeting with the city Loremaster; the challenge at the training grounds; the horrible embarrassment at the tavern of having his darkest secret exposed to the whole city and then his King’s order to fight in order to prove that their relationship did not exist. And now, he lay in bed with his closest friend, the bright and glorious Ecthelion, the person who’d always been on his side no matter what, and Valar help him, he was . . . affected by it. Nay, he could not complicate his life any further and he especially did not wish to jeopardize his friendship by doing something foolhardy. Another foolhardy thing, he corrected himself. He sighed and turned over again, face up. The bed creaked under his weight.

“Trouble sleeping?” Ecthelion said. He also turned onto his back. 

“Can you blame me, after all that's happened?” Glorfindel said.

“Not at all,” Ecthelion said. “However, in my experience, worrying over a situation beyond one’s control is rarely helpful.”

“True enough. But that’s the difference between you and I. You take things as they come. I fret about the future.” 

“So, for the time being, follow my lead and let it all go,” Ecthelion said. He moved closer, pressing up against Glorfindel’s side. There was a long pause in their speech, while Glorfindel enjoyed his friend’s warmth, the sounds of his steady breathing, and realized that he always felt comforted when Ecthelion was nigh. Somewhere in the room a cricket chirped, happily summoning a mate in the darkness. Then Glorfindel recalled the expression on Limíriel’s face just before she left and a suspicion blossomed. “Why are we here, Ecthelion?”

“Um, because Eru created us and awakened our grandfathers by the waters of Cuiviénen.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel snorted. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then are you asking why the lot of us are holding up in a secluded valley, hiding like mice from a cat? The answer is because Ulmo urged Turgon to seek this place and we, fearful of Morgoth’s malice and believing in Turgon’s wisdom, followed him here.”

“Those are all true, but do not answer my specific question,” Glorfindel said. “I mean, my dissembling friend, why have you brought me to this place?”

“I thought you needed to get away and have an opportunity to think,” Ecthelion replied. “Sometimes a change of scenery is welcome.”

“Undoubtedly, although our little jaunt into Nan Dungortheb helped matters not at all.”

“I’m hardly taking you to Nan Dungortheb,” Ecthelion said with a laugh. “We’re going to see one of the timeless beauties of the world. Always good for the fëa.”

“Not sure my fëa can find peace, even in nature’s beauty,” Glorfindel said. “Not especially if I take on a challenge in defense of a lie.”

“That’s really eating at you, isn’t it?” Ecthelion said.

“Aye,” Glorfindel said. “And it would eat at you too if you were in my shoes.”

“It would at that.” 

There was another long pause. The cricket in the room seemed even more insistent.

“Tell me,” Ecthelion said. “Do you love him?”

There was a long pause while Glorfindel thought about the question, so seemingly simple, but now not so. “I did,” he said finally. “When my parents sent me to foster in his household, I came to worship him. At that time, he was unattainable and so it was for many years. Then, the night he lost his wife on the ice, we lay together. I didn’t intend for it to happen, as it was more a matter of warming him from the cold. For a long time, we did nothing further, then after we finished building Gondolin, we did it again. After so many years of longing, it seemed the culmination of my desires.” 

“I did not know it had gone on for so long,” Ecthelion replied. “But you said, “I did,” past tense. Do you still love him?”

“Ah,” Glorfindel paused, thinking. “Well, now, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Ecthelion turned to face him, with his head propped on his hand.

“By necessity, by having to hide our relationship; by his . . . treatment of me in ways that I don’t deserve; by the fact that he’s my sovereign and still commands my fealty. Aye, complicated. I wish now that I’d never begun this affair. But it’s too late now.” 

“Just as the seasons change, so may our hearts. It’s never too late to begin anew,” Ecthelion said. 

The unspoken implication hung quietly in the still air. The cricket ceased calling. Ecthelion reached out and gently cupped Glorfindel’s cheek in his warm hand. 

Glorfindel realized he’d been holding his breath and released it with a sigh. “I have much to think about before . . . beginning anew,” he said. 

The silence stretched. Ecthelion seemed ready to say something. Glorfindel heard him swallow. Instead, Ecthelion withdrew his hand. “Then, think on it, my friend. But not so hard that you get no rest. We’ve a long uphill trek tomorrow.” 

“Seems to be the tale of my life,” Glorfindel said. 

****************

Glorfindel awoke in the grey dawn and found himself pressed up against Ecthelion’s rear end, sporting an unwitting erection. Embarrassed, he shifted away.

Ecthelion chuckled. “You can stay there if you have a mind to.” 

“Forgive me—a morning staff—merely a reaction of the body.”

Ecthelion turned and slipped his arm about Glorfindel’s waist. “It’s an unfortunate affliction, is it not? And appears to be catching.” He nudged his loins against Glorfindel’s, demonstrating a similar condition.

“Oh,” Glorfindel said. 

Ecthelion rocked his hips, forward and back causing heat to pulse through Glorfindel’s cock and spread throughout his body. 

“This . . . is dangerous,” Glorfindel murmured. “More complications.”

“Were you so circumspect when you first entered the King’s chamber?” Ecthelion asked, and for the first time Glorfindel heard bitterness in his voice. He stared at Ecthelion’s face, so familiar that it had been some time since he noticed how beautiful he was. His eyes were a lighter blue in the morning light, still half-closed with sleep, the eyelashes dense and black.

At that moment a soft rap sounded on the door. “Breakfast is nearly ready. You’ve just enough time to wash,” called Limíriel.

Ecthelion made a sound of disgust and rolled flat on his back, revealing the tent in his braes. Glorfindel looked at it longer than was decent and stifled the desire to close his hand about it, see how big it was. But he would be foolish to trade one set of troubles for another. His friend had a faultless reputation and didn’t deserve to be tarred with the same brush as he. And he knew quite well that Turgon would be outraged if he were unfaithful. Besides, something was niggling at him—the thought that Ecthelion had clearly been here before and most likely not alone. So, that left the requirement that he take care of his own needs. “Where is the latrine?” he asked.

“Just down the hill,” Ecthelion said. “Go on without me. I must . . . um . . . . take some time.” 

“Take all the time you need,” Glorfindel said. “Although if I remember aright, a few moments behind a tree should do it.” 

“Huh,” Ecthelion said. “You know, for that remark, we are going to run up that bloody mountain today.”

***************  
Notes:

*The Silm says the road coming out of Gondolin is a stairway, but I plead the practicality of moving goods from the fields up into the city. They had to have wagons, therefore a ramp, not stairs. Perhaps the stairs run alongside the road.

Fëa (S) spirit  
Limíriel (S) sparkling jewel (lim + míriel)  
Thôraegas (S) eagle peak. The name is an elfscribe invention.  
Thoronsîr - eagle river (thoron + sir) I named the village after the river which Tolkien calls Thorn Sir in “The Fall of Gondolin.” The Book of Lost Tales 2. p. 193-4.


	5. The Roof of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations.

At breakfast, Limíriel introduced Glorfindel to her eight-year-old twin girls, Elufir and Fanael, who regarded him shyly, as they hid behind their mother, and peeped out at him with bright eyes. But when Ecthelion came into the room, they emerged, and bounded up to him. “Uncle Ecthelion, Uncle Ecthelion,” they cried. “Come play with us!” 

Ecthelion scooped them both up in his arms and kissed each of them with a resounding smack on the cheek. They squealed excitedly. 

Glorfindel smiled. Ecthelion should have been a father. What a tragedy that Gondolin had no room for more children. 

After breakfast, Voronwë, Limíriel, and their girls stood outside the cottage in the bright sunlight to see them off. 

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Glorfindel said to them with a little bow.

“We like to have visitors,” Voronwë said. “It does get isolated out here.”

Limíriel beamed at him. “Both you and Ecthelion are welcome to stay the night again on your way back down. It’s always good to enjoy a haven away from prying eyes.”

Glorfindel hesitated and saw Ecthelion’s amused expression. He started to say she had the wrong idea, but then recalled his predicament that morning. 

“You’re blushing!” Limíriel laughed. Her girls giggled and Fanael began doing cartwheels.

“Perhaps we will accept your offer,” Ecthelion said with a sideways glance at Glorfindel. “We’ll have to see how late we are getting down.” He bowed to Limíriel and shook Voronwë’s hand. “Now Anor is rapidly rising, and we’d best get on with our walk or we won’t reach the peak today.” 

“If life becomes too constricting in Gondolin, you could always join us,” Limiriel said. 

“Aye, come live with us, Uncle Ecthelion,” Elufir cried.

“And you can come too, Uncle Glorfindel,” said Fanael. 

“Oh ho, so now you’ve earned a title too,” Limíriel said to Glorfindel. “We’ll look for you to return this evening.”

“Until then,” Ecthelion said. 

Glorfindel and Ecthelion headed off down the path, which followed the course of the stream. Glorfindel turned to see the twins waving at them.

“Uncle Ecthelion,” Glorfindel chuckled. “I never would have guessed that you got along so well with children.”

“They just sense my natural fun-loving nature,” Ecthelion replied. 

“Or the fact that you’ve never grown up,” Glorfindel said. They entered a small copse of trees. Glorfindel remembered the knowing look on Limíriel’s face. “Why do I have the feeling that you’ve brought someone there before?”

“Because I have,” Ecthelion said. 

“Oh,” Glorfindel replied. He began to ask who, and then stopped. A thread of jealousy entered his heart and he brushed it aside. What right had he to feel jealous?

Ecthelion said, “It was several years ago, and is over. He was sent out to guard the silver gate.”

“How did I not know?” 

“We kept it quiet. You didn’t tell me about you and the King. Although I had guessed. Come, let us talk about other things. I can see this troubles you, when it need not.” 

 

Their path grew steeper. On their left-hand, the stream leapt and clattered down the hillside. Above them, ever nearer, rose the intimidating heights of the Encircling Mountains with their bare jagged sides and bright snow-capped peaks. The morning sun was burning off the mists that had accumulated in the hollows and the day was growing clear and bright. Glorfindel found himself delighting in the presence of occasional copses of trees, which were rare enough in the rest of the Tumladen these days. As they climbed, the trees changed from leafy green deciduous to pine. The village of Thoronsîr could now be seen far below as a motley collection of tiny thatched roofs nearly hidden by a bend in the path. Already the briskness of their uphill pace was making Glorfindel feel a bit winded. 

“I’ve never had occasion to travel up to Cirith Thoronath,” he said, as he paused for breath. 

“I’ve come up here a handful of times in the last hundred years,” Ecthelion replied. “I find it a good place to gain perspective. Since that’s what you appear to need, it seemed a fitting journey. We’ve about half a day’s hard labor to ascend to the top, but there’s quite a view at the end. Hopefully, that will make it worth your while.”

“Is it true you can see the eyries of Thorondor and his people?”

“Aye, you can. Magnificent! Wait until you view them for yourself.”

The path wound out of sight of the village and climbed along the top of a ridge for a long distance, then dropped down for a while before climbing again. Now it rose even more steeply and hugged the side of the mountain. In places, it had clearly been chiseled from the rock.They left behind the evergreens, which were still visible in dark green swaths, for the bleak expanse of grey rock, here and there softened by orange lichens, and patches of blue and white wildflowers. On their left, the chattering stream had gouged a ravine that grew in depth as they trudged up the path until the water disappeared from sight into a vast gorge. For no discernible reason, Glorfindel began to feel uneasy as if something was lurking nearby. 

Striding ahead of him, Ecthelion called, “Come, this is one of the sights I wanted to show you. Look!”

They rounded a corner and there across the gorge the stream poured from a wide crack in the rock and with a musical roar, plunged down into the abyss. Spray plumed upward like smoke. It was truly a spectacular sight. Ahead of them an immense boulder lay partly on the path, looking for all the world as if a giant troll had tossed it there. The top of it was flat and smaller boulders lead up to it almost like stepping stones. 

“Isn’t it amazing!” Ecthelion said enthusiastically. “We can get a better view of the waterfall from atop the rock there.” Like a mountain goat, he leapt from rock to rock, ascending to the top of the boulder.

Something bad was going to happen! Glorfindel felt it in his bones, along with an overwhelming urge to shield Ecthelion from whatever it was. “Nay! Don’t go up there!” he cried in panic.

High above him, Ecthelion paused, silhouetted against the sun, which cast a fiery halo about his head. He turned back to stare inquisitively down at Glorfindel.

Glorfindel set his foot on the lowest rock prepared to climb after him. His blood roared in his ears. Where were his weapons? The shadow of the mountain seemed like vast wings stretching towards him. He looked over the edge of the precipice. The valley floor, far below was covered with a myriad of slender rocks that stabbed upward like spears. The height made the pit of his stomach drop. Overcome with an intense feeling of vertigo, Glorfindel stumbled, and fell to his knees. Blackness came over his vision. He grabbed part of the boulder and held on, as a feeling of evil overwhelmed him so intensely he felt nauseated. 

“Glorfindel! What’s wrong?” he heard Ecthelion call from somewhere above him. A light patter of footfalls sounded, then a rattle of small stones slid down the slope and Glorfindel heard a thump as Ecthelion landed near him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you well, friend?”

“Dizzy,” Glorfindel gasped. “Something is very wrong here. Very dark. I don’t know what it is. I can’t see.” 

“Perhaps it’s the altitude,” Ecthelion said. “It can make you lightheaded if you’re not used to it. Come, let’s away from this drop. I’ll help you up, lean on me.”

Glorfindel allowed Ecthelion to raise him up and then guide him with one arm about his waist. By now, Glorfindel’s sight had returned but his vision still swam with black specks like bats. They had to go single file past the boulder and then negotiate the rock-strewn path beyond it. Still feeling ill, Glorfindel followed Ecthelion’s lead. They climbed another long stretch past the vertiginous drop. Rock walls rose on either side of the path, shutting off the view of the precipice. The sound of the plunging waterfall dimmed.

Glorfindel felt better and his vision cleared. “Just a patch of vertigo,” he said. “I can walk on my own now.” 

Ecthelion’s brows were knit together. “Most peculiar,” he said. He held onto Glorfindel’s arm.

“I’m fine,” Glorfindel said. “No need to coddle me. It was just a brief turn.”

“Perhaps we should rest and eat something,” Ecthelion said. “There is a good place a little farther. Follow me.”

They continued climbing and eventually emerged into a high meadow. Bare patches of rough, rocky ground were interspersed with a light blanket of snow. The mountain peaks rose in craggy glory on one side and on the other, the vale of Tumladen was visible. Gondolin appeared tiny as a child’s toy, white walls and towers perched on top of the shiny black rock, surrounded by broad fields of varying hues of green and yellow. The sunlight was pleasant, and Glorfindel, warm from the climb, welcomed the cool breeze blowing from the north. 

“It’s beautiful!’ he pronounced. 

Ecthelion took off his pack and sat down on a boulder that was bare of snow. “Faring better now?” He drank some water from his canteen.

“Aye.” Glorfindel sat down next to him.

“I think it’s time for the brandy,” Ecthelion said. He took the horn off his shoulder and passed it to Glorfindel. “This should help relax you.”

Glorfindel lifted the horn, uncapped the end, and took a swallow. The liquor burned pleasantly down his throat and felt warm in his stomach. He took another one. “That’s just the thing,” he said. He passed the horn back to Ecthelion, who drank several gulps. “It was so strange,” Glorfindel said. “Have you ever had a feeling that you’ve been somewhere before when you know you haven’t?” 

Ecthelion nodded as he drank some more. “I’ve had that happen. I always wondered if I was remembering a past life, but then I don’t think I’ve ever been reborn. Or if I have, no one has told me.” He rummaged about in his pack, brought out a packet of biscuits that Limíriel had given him, and offered one to Glorfindel. 

“Well, this was similar but not the same—a very strong feeling,” Glorfindel said as he brushed Ecthelion’s warm fingers in the process of taking the biscuit. It set off a tingle in his nether regions.

“A premonition, perhaps?” Ecthelion said. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Let us hope it’s nothing more than hard exercise in thin air,” Ecthelion said. “I fear we’ll have to go back the same way.” 

“Perhaps I’ll be used to the thin air by then.” Glorfindel bit into the biscuit and savored the flaky texture with a buttery taste and hint of honey. It seemed to mix well with the brandy. “Hmmm. I’ll be fine. How much farther is it?”

“There it is, Thôraegas.” Ecthelion gestured at the massive snow-clad spur of the mountain looming over them. “We have to leave the path to ascend to the top. It’s not far, as the eagle flies, but a bit longer as the elf walks. I’d say we’ll reach it in another couple of hours. That is, if you’re up to it.”

Glorfindel grinned at him. “You forget who won the race around the city last year.”

“I’d hardly forget that, since I came in second,” Ecthelion said. “Lost my wager too. Curse you.” He laughed and offered the horn again. 

Glorfindel took another swallow. He was starting to feel calmer after whatever had happened to him earlier. “Seems strange to have snow at our feet, after leaving sweltering Gondolin. I’d surely love to send this down to my team members. At this moment, under Lord Duilin’s exacting hand, no doubt they are sweating and cursing me.”

“Let them curse. Will do them good. Tis a long time since we were sparring partners,” Ecthelion said. “I think I could still beat you if we were matched up.” He held out his hand for the horn.

“Do you?” Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “Well, certainly you don’t lack for confidence.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Ecthelion said. He drank some more and looked moodily off towards Gondolin.

There was that unspoken tension again between them. 

“I think we should carry on,” Glorfindel said, rising. “Pardon me for a moment. Nature calls.”

He headed off a discreet distance and opened his breeches. He’d just finished and was tucking himself back into his braes when he felt a sudden impact in the middle of his back. He whipped around and there was Ecthelion laughing and brushing snow off his hands. “Got you,” he called. “Easy target.”

“Fox!” Glorfindel growled. He scooped up some snow, pressed it into a ball, then let it fly. It hit Ecthelion squarely on the chest with a satisfying splat and a spray. 

“Oh!” Ecthelion combed some snow out of his hair. “That’s done it! Now it’s a war!” he declared happily. He pulled some gloves from his belt and tugged them on, then ducked behind a boulder. Glorfindel ran to his pack and donned his own gloves. Ecthelion popped up and hurled another missile, which Glorfindel eluded and it struck the rocks behind him. A cat and mouse game ensued through the scattered boulders in the meadow, punctuated by wet sounds of splatting snowballs and laughter. 

Glorfindel sneaked up on Ecthelion with a big handful of snow, then just as he turned, Glorfindel pounced and shoved it down the neck of his shirt. “Bastard!” Ecthelion was laughing. “By the door of night, that’s cold.” He lunged at Glorfindel’s legs and brought him down. They rolled in the snow as Ecthelion attempted to retaliate by putting snow down Glorfindel’s breeches.

“Are you impugning my mother?” Glorfindel laughed, as he twisted underneath Ecthelion.

“And your father and all your wretched ancestors,” Ecthelion replied. He rolled on top of Glorfindel, sat on his waist, and pinned down his wrists. 

Breathless with laughter, Glorfindel raised his hips trying to throw him off, but Ecthelion merely sank his weight down and held him. His black hair was loose and hanging about his face, his cheeks red with the cold, his eyes bright with laughter. His mouth was close and looked so . . . kissable. 

There was a beat, a moment where they stared into each other’s eyes. Ecthelion stopped laughing. He leaned down and his lips brushed Glorfindel’s.

And then they were kissing, deeply, madly, passionately, as if the floodgates had opened. Glorfindel tasted the brandy in Ecthelion’s mouth. He explored further with his tongue, ravished Ecthelion’s lips. Ecthelion moaned and ground his loins against him. Glorfindel rolled Ecthelion over and finding no resistance at all, kissed him some more, then bit his cheek and down his neck.

Ecthelion was panting. “Valar, you don’t know how long . . . how long I’ve wanted, needed . . . . in bed with you this morning, such torture.”

“Torture, I agree. Cursed be our lot to discover this in the wet snow,” Glorfindel said. He was achingly hard and desperate for release. Rubbing against Ecthelion, he could feel the ridge at his friend’s groin. He went back to devouring Ecthelion’s mouth as he held his friend’s head in his hands, relishing Ecthelion’s moans. 

“Stop,” Ecthelion gasped. “Here, I’ll do something about this. Roll on your back.” 

Glorfindel obliged. Ecthelion moved down and fumbled with the buttons on Glorfindel’s breeches, reached in, closed his gloved hand about Glorfindel’s straining cock and pulled him out into the cold air. That sensation lasted mere seconds before Ecthelion’s hot mouth had descended upon him, and Glorfindel threw his head back in ecstasy. He gasped and groaned until within a few moments, he had scaled the peak of sensation and stood hovering on the edge of the abyss. Then he erupted and felt he was soaring. Ecthelion swallowed all around him and Glorfindel still pulsing and throbbing in that relentless heat, cried out. For several long moments, Glorfindel lay still, tingling and happy. He opened his eyes. 

Ecthelion grinned at him, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste good,” he said. 

Glorfindel sat up and then pushed him over. “Your turn,” he said. He pulled off his gloves, unbuttoned Ecthelion’s breeches, untied his braes, and reached in. Ecthelion’s cock fairly leapt into his hand, already pulsing, blue-veined, large and beautiful. Glorfindel’s mouth watered. “Up here,” Glorfindel said, tugging him up to sit on the flat-topped rock by their packs. Then Glorfindel got on his knees, put one hand on Ecthelion’s cock and the other on the small of his back, and ravished him with mouth and tongue. He heard Ecthelion’s joyful cries, felt him writhing under his hands, tasted and inhaled his warm, spicy scent. He opened his mouth wide and took him all in, slid back up, and then down again. Faster, harder. 

“By the Valar,” Ecthelion panted, “that’s so . . . unh, so good.” He moaned and his seed surged into Glorfindel’s mouth. Glorfindel swallowed and swallowed, and sucked some more, enjoying the feel of Ecthelion filling his mouth, the taste on his tongue, until Ecthelion put a gentle hand on his head. “I’m undone,” he said. “It was miraculous.” 

Glorfindel sat up. Ecthelion’s eyes were closed in bliss. He opened them with that flash of fathomless blue and then they both grinned at each other—Ecthelion’s dimple showed.

“I can see why the King won’t let you go,” Ecthelion said. “Not with a mouth like that.”

With a pang of heart, Glorfindel sat back on his haunches. He looked across the meadow back towards the tiny city, fair and remote in the distance. 

“Forgive me,” Ecthelion said. “That was thoughtless.” They were quiet for a moment. Somewhere a little bird cheeped among the rocks. Ecthelion leaned forward, smoothed Glorfindel’s golden hair away from his face. “Thank you, my friend. I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of that. I love you. Have loved you for a long time, but there was always an impediment, a wall between us, and only yesterday did I truly learn what it was.”

Glorfindel sat down next to him, took Ecthelion’s hands in his. “It is not in me to be faithless,” he said.

“How well I know that!” Ecthelion said. “You forget how long we’ve known each other. You are the most loyal, stubborn, and selfless man I know. To the detriment of your own happiness. Do you not love me as well?”

Ecthelion was regarding him, with a furrowed brow. Glorfindel leaned over and kissed him gently on the mouth. “I think we should continue our journey,” he said. “Lead the way, dear friend.”

It took three hours of hard climbing over snow fields and wind-swept rock to reach the summit. Several times Glorfindel paused, trying to catch his breath in the thin air, wondering at his friend’s obstinate insistence on this trek. Occasionally, Ecthelion turned to look back, solemn for once, and then continued climbing. Glorfindel’s thoughts fluttered about in his mind. _What should I do? How do I confess what I’ve just done to Túrukáno? Should I finally break with him? What do I truly want?_

After a particularly hard vertical climb, accomplished by finding hand and footholds in cracks in the hard granite, they finally emerged onto the summit. It was flat, not much bigger than the cottage at Thoronsîr and covered in snow. The rockface dropped away sheer and vertiginous on all sides except the one they’d scrambled up. 

Ecthelion had been right. The view took his breath! All around him rose the majesty of jagged peaks and long ridges of bare rock, with patches of snow, white in the afternoon sun. Glorfindel turned around slowly, taking it in. He breathed deeply of the crisp bright air. On a nearby ridge, he could discern huge ragged nests.

“Look, eagle nests,” he said. “But I don’t see any eagles.”

“They must be out hunting,” Ecthelion replied. “There’s the Sirion.” He pointed westward at the long, glittering thread of silver that ran through the green valley along the length of the mountains. 

“And the vale of Nan Dungortheb to the south,” Glorfindel said, indicating the dark mist-riven forest. “Brrr, I hope never to go there again.” 

“You have my hearty agreement on that score,” Ecthelion said. The chill breeze fluttered his cape and locks of his hair rippled about his face like an inky banner. He hunched a bit, pulling the cape about himself. “Notice the tree-line all about the Valley. Every time I come up here it appears to recede like a balding old Adan.”

“We’re using up the wood at a faster rate than it grows.” Glorfindel frowned.

“Aye, there is another small valley down there, rich with trees. We might be able to go there.”

“How long until we’ve denuded the entire mountains?” Glorfindel said.

“We must be careful,” Ecthelion replied. “You can see another small valley within the mountains hereabouts. I think if we explored a bit more, we might find more resources for Gondolin.”

“You may be right,” Glorfindel said. “It’s worth a try.” 

“I’ll get permission from Turgon to organize an expedition when we get back,” Ecthelion said. “Look, you can just discern the Orfalch Echor. It appears as if Eru split the mountain with an axe.” 

“Aye, and I can see at least one of the mighty gates, insignificant from this height.” Glorfindel turned east. “And there’s our home.” 

Nestled like a little green jewel in the midst of the savage expanse of sharp rock lay the civilized fields of the Tumladen, and even tinier in the center of the valley, he could descry a speck of white in the midst of the black hill—fair Gondolin. Now so far away. “It looks so fragile and vulnerable from up here.” 

“It does,” Ecthelion agreed. “That tiny marvel is what we’re protecting, Glorfindel. From that.” He swiveled about and pointed north.

Past the encircling mountain ranges, on the very edge of sight, amidst a line of mountains, three black cones rose ominously, each belching a thin line of smoke. The black land about them seemed to resist the very sunlight. Glorfindel squinted at them. From here they appeared tiny, but Glorfindel knew they were massive and filled with foes who desired nothing more than to eradicate their very existence. His heart misgave him with the same sense of dread that he’d experienced in the pass below. “Now I know why you brought me up here,” he said.

“Now you know. It makes all our troubles seem petty in comparison,” Ecthelion said. He pressed his lips together. 

“It’s worth all the sacrifice,” Glorfindel said. “Perhaps everyone in Gondolin should come and see this for themselves, to understand anew what we are doing.”

“I believe it’s only a matter of time until He spies us out,” Ecthelion said. “And then we’ll be fighting for our lives. In the meantime, we should not be holding our breaths waiting and cringing as if we’re already dead inside. Instead, I think we should inhale the sweet air— and follow our hearts. What does yours say?”

Glorfindel looked out over the sun glittering on the snow-covered heights and felt a shift of understanding in his heart, a revelation. He smiled, took his lover’s hands in his own. “It tells me that all along I had what I wanted, and was too blind to see. I love you, too.”

Standing upon the roof of the world, they kissed, lips warm and vital, their love as proof against the hatred and despair that glowered at them from afar. 

“Your face is cold,” Ecthelion said. “I think perhaps we should go someplace with a fire—and a bed.” 

“That sounds rightly ordered,” Glorfindel replied, stroking his fine dark hair. He looked up and saw a brown speck high in the heavens. As he watched, it descended in large, circular sweeps. 

“Look, Ecthelion,” he cried, “An eagle! An eagle is coming!” **

**************  


*Adan (S) - Man, as in the race of Men

Elufir (S) - fair blue

Fanael(S) - floating cloud lake

Thôraegas (S) - eagle peak

**Since this is a Tolkien fic, it seems a fitting tribute to include a gratuitous rescue by eagle. I imagine that Thorondor might be kind enough to transport them off the mountain top so they can get into bed quicker. Don’t you?


	6. Rising to the Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel must decide how to uphold his honor.

Dawn was just breaking, spreading a warm light over the room. Ecthelion lay under Glorfindel, a delicious sight. His black hair was spread out over the pillow, his muscular chest heaving, his lips parted and his eyes half-closed in pleasure. Glorfindel was overcome with desire to possess him wholly and completely. “There, you’ve got it all,” Glorfindel said with a gasp, as his abdomen came up flush with Ecthelion’s buttocks. 

“Then don’t make me wait; do something with it,” Ecthelion said. 

“I hope I don’t get stuck, with a diddle hey diddle,” Glorfindel said. Ecthelion laughed, which Glorfindel felt as a pleasant vibration. 

“Um, that might prove awkward if you're trying to fight Rog,” Ecthelion said. "A bit of an impediment, I'd say." They both chuckled. Ecthelion continued, "I'm glad you've developed a sense of humor about Pengolodh's ditty. However, having had sufficient experience with this matter, I doubt there's any real danger. So now I beg of you, finish me off. I'm in need."

Ecthelion’s hands were raised, resting on the pillows near his shoulders. Glorfindel interlaced their fingers, then kissed him deeply. “You are complaining, after everything we did last night?” he said when he pulled back to look at him.

“No complaints.” Ecthelion smiled up into his eyes. “Just . . . curse you for torturing me like this. You’re a warrior; wield your staff!” 

“Since you insist,” Glorfindel grinned. He began to move, a long slide out and then a hard thrust, slapping against his lover’s rear, harder and faster until he was slamming his entire length into the tight heat of Ecthelion’s body. Ecthelion reached for his own straining cock and began stroking himself almost brutally, as he rocked his hips, meeting Glorfindel thrust for thrust. 

“Aye, now that’s better,” Ecthelion said. “Perfect. Keep going! More! Harder!” He threw back his head, and groaned in pleasure, as he came in heavy spurts that peppered his chest. The pulsing sensation vibrated around Glorfindel’s cock, launching him into his own shuddering orgasm. He thrust harder, and harder, riding out the waves of joy. 

Finally, he came to a stop, still inside his lover. “Do you not agree that this is a better use for a morning staff than we employed yesterday?”

“A thousand times better,” Ecthelion sighed. 

Glorfindel slowly pulled out, grabbed a cloth and wiped off Ecthelion's chest, then lay down alongside him. "We should have done this long ago," he said. "But then, circumstances were different."

Ecthelion rolled on his side, entwined their legs. “I've wanted to do this for years and glad I am that you finally came to your senses." He stroked his hand down Glorfindel's face. "Last night was one to remember. Curse the King’s edict which denies us such pleasures.” 

“Agreed,” Glorfindel replied. “It’s nigh on impossible to enforce such a decree.”

“Good that Thorondor was willing to transport us off the mountain yesterday,” Ecthelion said. “Gave us more time in bed together. What a sensation to fly through the air like that! I’ll never forget it.”

“Nor will I,” Glorfindel said. “I fear Voronwë and Limíriel thought we were rude, excusing ourselves so soon after dinner.” 

“Nay, they understood,” Ecthelion said. “We’re not the first to come out here for this purpose. Remember what Limíriel said about a refuge from prying eyes. I’ll return soon and bring some gifts for the girls to make up for it. But for now, we need to think of the immediate future.”

Glorfindel looked out of the window at the cluster of huts with the backdrop of mountains. “I’d much prefer to stay here forever than to face the challenge this afternoon.”

“Do you think you can take Rog?” Ecthelion said.

“I think so,” Glorfindel said. “But it will likely hurt a lot and I wouldn’t bet on the outcome. The power of truth is not on my side this time.”

“I wonder if Manwë truly cares about our oaths,” Ecthelion said. “If he does, why should a fight settle the question? Why not just send Thorondor down with a scroll declaring one elf to be a prat and a bloody liar, and the other one virtuous and honest?”

“That would certainly be more just,” Glorfindel chuckled. “I always thought that winning a fight has more to do with skill and power and less to do with the strength of one’s convictions. But Turgon was adamant that I go through with it. I’ve told myself that I must do what my King commands because of my loyalty and love for him. But fighting to defend a lie, I’m finding it hard to bear.”

“One of the many reasons I love you,” Ecthelion said. “I do worry though. The challenge is to first blood only, but accidents do occur. Remember Penlod’s son last year? A wrong step and he was run through. It was almost enough to make Turgon outlaw the challenge altogether.”

“I’ll be careful,” Glorfindel said. “I know Rog; he’s a man of honor. Still, we’ll both strive to win.” 

“Can’t you just throw down your sword and capitulate?” Ecthelion said. 

Glorfindel shook his head. “And you wouldn’t either.”

“You’re right. We’re too stubborn for our own good.” Ecthelion sat up. “Well then, the sooner we leave, the sooner you can get this over. We can make it to Gondolin with enough time for you to arm yourself and stretch out. When are you going to tell Turgon . . . .” 

“About what we’ve done? I don’t know.” 

“Maybe you don’t need to—not yet,” Ecthelion said. “Everyone has secrets. You’ve kept the truth of your relationship with Turgon hidden for years. Why not hide ours as well?”

“I’m weary of secrets, lies, half-truths,” Glorfindel sighed. “Let’s get up and prepare to leave. We have a long walk ahead of us.” 

**************  
“You seem distracted, Glorfindel,” Limíriel said at breakfast. Having just done justice to a plate of eggs and biscuits, Glorfindel sat at the table, nursing a cup of tea. Voronwë was seated nearby repairing a fishing weir by bending the withies in and out of the frame. Glorfindel heard laughter just outside the door. Ecthelion was playing hide and seek with the twins. 

Glorfindel gave her a smile. “I’ve much to think about,” he said. “Let me ask something a bit delicate. What caused you to defy the Council and conceive your children?”

Limíriel held up a finger. “All you have to do is listen to them playing, and you’ll have your answer. Those children are the fruit of the love that Voronwë and I have for each other, and our delight in life. But beyond our own selfish desire for children, I believe Gondolin needs them, else as a people we will stagnate and wither.”

“Was it worth being sent away from Gondolin to live a life in exile?”

“Without question,” Voronwë said. 

“Do you not fear increasing the population of this valley beyond what our resources can support?” Glorfindel asked. “Forgive me, but it is an important question that concerns all of us.”

“Of course I do,” Voronwë said. “We are all in this together. But I believe we’ve been thinking about the problem in only one way, when there are other approaches we might take. Certainly we cannot recklessly beget more children and remain here, but if we choose to grow slowly, I think we can support more people than the Council has determined. Here in this village we’ve been experimenting, finding ways to increase our crop yields and planting fast-growing trees to use for firewood. Bóralph, who lives two houses down, has created a stove that burns more efficiently so we need less fuel. If we put the best minds of Gondolin to work on the problem, we can make better use of what resources we have and I think it would be good to have a tangible goal to work towards.”

Glorfindel nodded. “That’s good. You’ve given me a different way to think about this. I’ll discuss this with the Council as soon as I may. For now, Ecthelion and I had best return to Gondolin. I have an appointment in the challenge ring this afternoon.”

**************

“I’d like an audience with the King,” Glorfindel said to Morgil who was standing guard outside the King’s throne room. 

“Lord Glorfindel, it’s a relief to see you back in Gondolin,” Morgil said. “There were others, less trusting, who were making bets that you’d fled the challenge.”

“I needed to get away to think for a while,” Glorfindel said. “Now I’m back and I need to see him.”

Morgil looked uncomfortable. “He’s given orders not to admit anyone.”

“He won’t talk to his champion?” Glorfindel asked. 

The door opened and Idril came out, dressed in a white gown and wearing her golden hair loose about her shoulders. She smiled at him. “Glorfindel, I’d heard that you were back.”

“Milady.” Glorfindel inclined his head. “I wish to speak to your father but I’m told he’s not receiving visitors.”

“He will see you,” Idril said firmly. “I will insist. Captain Morgil, let him pass.”

Morgil bowed and stood aside. Glorfindel followed Idril through the throne room and down several hallways to the King’s library. She knocked on the door and then opened it without waiting for an answer. “Father, Glorfindel is here to see you.”

“I told Morgil no visitors,” Turgon growled. 

Idril opened the door wider. “You will see Lord Glorfindel,” she said. “I believe you two have much to discuss.” She nodded at Glorfindel and then departed, leaving the door partially open. 

The King reclined upon a sofa, with books piled about his feet. He held an open book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He snapped the book shut. “I was told you’d left the city, without asking leave. I feared you’d run off.”

“Have you ever known me to do such a thing?” Glorfindel said angrily. 

Turgon set the wine glass down. “Nay, you are nothing if not loyal. Why then did you wish to see me?” 

“I’ve taken some time to reflect upon our situation. I cannot fight to defend a lie.”

“Then fight to uphold the honor of your House and mine. Both have been besmirched by Pengolodh’s slander.”

“I do not agree with the way in which he did it, but he is right, Túrukáno. You yourself have said, what is a King who cannot follow the law?”

“I have been weak, as have you. I know that,” Turgon said. “Come sit beside me.”

“Nay, what I have to say, I’ll say from here.” Glorfindel steeled himself. “I can no longer come to your bed, Túrukáno. You feel it’s wrong. The laws of our city say it’s wrong. And we are not being made happy by it.”

“I have come to the same conclusion,” Turgon said. His face looked tired. “But we have made this vow before and it has not availed us.”

“There is more,” Glorfindel said. “I have lain with Ecthelion and he has my heart.”

Turgon swiftly looked up. His eyes snapped in anger. “How long have you been dealing double with me?”

“Only since last night.”

“How could you! I forbid it! I’ll send Ecthelion out to guard the gates.”

“You and I may not be together, but yet you would deny me happiness with another?”

“By law and custom of the Quendi, you are engaging in forbidden acts. We shall both ask for absolution from Manwë and we shall refrain from all further congress, as must all the Gondolindrim from now on. Our survival depends on suppressing desire as our wise counselors have determined.” He gestured at the books lying open around his feet.

“I do not believe that it does,” Glorfindel said. “I have spoken with Voronwë whom you exiled. He and others in Thoronsîr have begun developing ways to stretch our resources. I suggest we reconvene the Council and listen to his ideas.”

“As you well know, we have studied the matter and this is the only way,” Turgon said. “Believe me, I do not want to enforce this law.”

Glorfindel folded his arms. “It is only outdated laws and customs that forbid men from lying with men or women with women. Allowing what you and I have been doing is a solution to our problem. Why do we make it a crime?”

“You would change everything, change who we are as a people just to enjoy these filthy lusts!” Turgon cried. He got up and began to pace. “It is my duty to maintain our laws and keep our people safe from evil. I cannot simply throw thousands of years of custom out the window.”

“I would change these customs because they are wrong, Túrukáno, because love is never wrong. I believe your heart froze long ago when the beautiful Elenwë died and you have never forgiven yourself or me for that day. Well, I choose to move on and to love whom I will!”

Turgon’s face contorted in rage. “How dare you speak to me of Elenwë! This I say as your King and sovereign: in two hours time you shall appear in the arena to defend my honor even if you have none left yourself. After this, we will have no further relations but what are required by your position as head of your House. But if I discover that you are continuing this affair with Ecthelion, I shall exile you. Is that clear!”

“Perfectly,” Glorfindel said through clenched teeth. Anger flared white hot throughout his body. It was all he could to keep from breaking something. Without waiting to be dismissed, he stalked to the door, then he turned. “I truly loved you, my Lord. I thought you were better than this. You are better than this. I don’t know what has taken over your heart, but you may as well open the gates to the city and allow Morgoth’s hosts in!” He slammed the door on the way out.

Outside, he suddenly felt overcome with fury. He slammed his hand into the wall. Idril glided up to him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, my Lord. I heard some of it and he confided in me last night. You are correct. He is better than this and he will remember it in time. Let me talk to him.”

****************  
Dressed in his armor, and sweating in the heat of the late afternoon, Glorfindel stood under an awning located to the side of the amphitheatre and arena where Gondolin conducted their games. All of Gondolin seemed to have turned out to witness the challenge. There was a festive atmosphere as crowds of colorfully dressed elves threaded their way into the stands. Elves were selling ale, wine and viands from carts. The enticing aromas of baked apples and fried sweet cakes filled the air. Directly across from Glorfindel rose the pavilion for the Lords that included the royal box, draped in the King’s colors. Turgon and Idril would appear when everyone else was seated. The place for Lady Aredhel would, of course, remain vacant. The sight of her empty seat filled Glorfindel with remorse.

Standing a few paces away, Rog Camdring was flexing his bulging arms and then swiping his longsword through the air. His helm with the tall crest and broad breastplate emblazoned with his House symbol of the hammer and anvil, made him appear larger even than Glorfindel remembered. Glorfindel pulled on his heavy gauntlets, and rotated his arms and neck to loosen up, then squatted down and back up to loosen the hamstrings. 

Ecthelion and other members of his House filed into the arena, followed by Medlin and Broneg, from Glorfindel’s team. Behind them came Salgant, his son Talagand, and his nephew Tavorian, who made a rude gesture at Glorfindel, which immediately occasioned a shoving match between him and Broneg before Ecthelion broke it up. 

“Hail Glorfindel!” Broneg called. “We know you’ll vanquish him. When you have truth on your side, you can’t lose.”

Glorfindel shook his head. When they knew the truth, would they ever trust him again? He would’d be letting down everyone who had been vigorously defending him the past few days. At this point he just wanted to get the whole thing over with. 

Loremaster Pengolodh arrived, escorted by a guard on either side. He was seated in a box in the pavilion reserved for a challenger. 

A horn winded signaling the arrival of the King and Turgon appeared with Idril at his side. They climbed the stairs to their box, stood and waved at the people, then sat. Turgon’s face looked drawn and weary. 

Glorfindel moved closer to Rog, who stood half a head taller than him. “I didn’t know you were such a friend of our Loremaster’s,” Glorfindel said.

Rog turned his head but Glorfindel couldn’t see his expression through his face guard. “I’m not, particularly,” he said. “But I believe that if a King breaks the law and then denies that he has broken it, he takes the first step towards becoming a tyrant. By and large, Turgon has been a good King, but he must be stopped. We don’t have to do this, Golden Flower. All you have to do is admit the truth.”

“Are you so sure what the truth is?” Glorfindel said.

“I was there when Pengolodh sang his ridiculous ballad, and when you confronted him. I saw you refuse to swear an oath. That was enough to convince me. This does not become you, Glorfindel. It’s not the man I have come to know and respect.”

“When your King gives you an order, do you dare to disobey?” Glorfindel said. 

“A difficult choice, my Lord,” Rog said. “Shall we see what Manwë decides?”

Ecthelion came up to Glorfindel, checked over his armor, then clapped him on the shoulder. “May the Valar protect you,” he said. 

The horn winded again and the voices stilled. The crier came out onto the field and made the announcement. 

“A challenge has been made and accepted to settle an accusation by Loremaster Pengolodh against our Lord and King Turgon, son of Fingolfin of the House of Finwë, and Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. Pengolodh has alleged inappropriate conduct, which has been countered by the King’s accusation of slander. Our champions are Lord Glorfindel for the King and Lord Rog for the Loremaster. They have chosen the longsword as their weapons and the terms are to fight to first blood.” 

Galdor then entered, carrying his staff of office as arbiter. Glorfindel and Rog squared off against one another. Galdor set his staff between them, then removed it with a flourish. “Begin!” he cried.

Glorfindel immediately retreated and began circling his opponent, back and forth, sword held low. He knew that Rog relied on his superior size and strength but wasn’t as agile as he was. If he could just keep out of range and then dart in, he might get the advantage of him. It was bothersome not being able to see his opponent’s eyes through the slitted helm. 

Rog surprised him by immediately charging and striking at him with a heavy sideways blow. Glorfindel’s sword met Rog’s with a harsh clang, block, deflect, engage, block, deflect again. They retreated and circled. Glorfindel feinted, then came again from a different angle, so Rog had to turn to one side and then turn again.

“Appears you like dancing,” Rog called.

“I’m a great favorite at parties,” Glorfindel replied.

It was hot as Morgoth’s forge. The sun, mid-way above the western horizon, beat down on his armor. Sweat beaded upon his brow. The noise of the crowd on all sides was like buzzing insects. He watched Rog’s body, how he held himself, noticed that he took a moment to move his bulk into action. Glorfindel could sting him like a fly, push him into making mistakes. Glorfindel flew in, metal clashed high, low, side, disengage. He turned his sword and thrust the pommel into Rog’s visor. Bang! 

Rog staggered back before Glorfindel could grab his sword away from him. Once more they circled, rushed, engaged, deflected. Each time, Glorfindel was feeling him out, seeing where the weaknesses were. He couldn’t find any. 

Glorfindel’s breath was coming harder now. Again, attack, block, disengage. He smelled the dust and his own sweat. Glancing up, he saw Ecthelion standing on the side, watching intently. Next to him Galdor was poised with the staff. Hundreds of blurred faces yelling in the stands. He couldn’t make out individual words, but heard his name, Gloooorrrfinnnnndel!!

Rog swung his sword parallel to his head and hit Glorfindel on the helm with a tremendous blow that made Glorfindel’s ears ring. Glorfindel staggered back for a moment and Rog took advantage of it to push him back against the side of the pavilion. He heard cries of dismay from the elves in the seats above. Rog pressed up against him, and banged with his mailed fist on Glorfindel’s helm. Like a hammer on the anvil. Glorfindel’s head reeled. He brought his knee up hard into Rog’s stomach. 

“Oof,” Rog gasped and doubled over. Glorfindel knocked him on the back of his head with his pommel again. 

But instead of falling as, bloody well he should have done, Rog bucked his head up, smashing it into Glorfindel’s face, and throwing him backwards. He hit the ground hard and his sword went flying. Where was it? The ground shook with Rog’s footfalls coming for him. Glorfindel rolled, and felt the whoosh as Rog smashed his sword into the dirt where he’d just been. The crowd roared. 

Glorfindel rolled back the other way, and felt the impact as Rog stumbled over him and fell heavily to the ground. Glorfindel looked around wildly for his sword. Ecthelion shouted, “Fin! Over here!” Glorfindel glanced up at him and then down at the ground nearby. There it was! A few steps away. He staggered up and lunged towards it, reaching down and scooping it from the ground. He turned just in time to block another tremendous blow aimed at his neck but he lost balance and dropped to his knees. Rog thumped him on the back and then in the kidneys with his sword pommel and gold stars erupted in Glorfindel’s vision. Angband’s pits that hurt! 

“Glorfindel!” He heard Turgon cry from the stands. The fear in his voice was like a bolt of lightning. Glorfindel rolled out of the way, lurched to his feet, and then ran backwards out of harm’s way, with his sword held over his shoulder. 

Earlier in the fight, Rog would have caught him, but the smith was tiring. His breath wheezed through his visor. They both stood, facing each other again, gasping for air, their swords lowered to the ground. Sweat dripped in Glorfindel’s eyes and he could barely see. 

“Bloody stubborn Noldo, let’s end this,” Rog called. “You know the Loremaster was telling the truth. You’re fighting for a lie!”

“Nay, I’m fighting for my King,” Glorfindel said, as they closed on one another. 

This time Glorfindel went on the offensive. Thrust, engage, push. Then, he was inside Rog’s guard. Glorfindel hooked his leg behind Rogs’ knee and jerked his leg out from under him. Rog fell like a boulder and landed on his back with a thunderous crash. Glorfindel stood over him, holding the point of his sword at Rog’s throat. 

The crowd roared with approval. “First blood,” someone cried and then they began to chant, “First blood. First blood.”

Glorfindel let the sword hover over Rog’s throat just to make his point. Then, as Galdor moved in with his staff, Glorfindel threw his sword down with a clank into the dust at his feet. He pulled off his helm and wiped sweat from his eyes. “I have done my duty as my King’s champion,” he cried out, “but I will not take first blood because I am guilty.”

“Ohhh,” the crowd gasped. 

With a groan, Rog slowly rose, unstrapped his helm, and threw it at Glorfindel’s feet. He waved weakly at him. “Now that’s the Glorfindel I know,” he said in approval. 

Glorfindel knelt down before the King and raised his hands, palms together. “I have disobeyed you, my Lord and submit myself for punishment.” 

Slowly, Turgon rose from his seat and lifted his hand for quiet. “Nay, my loyal servant and dear friend, you deserve no punishment,” he said gently, but his voice carried through the ampitheatre. “May the Valar forgive me, the fault is not yours and never has been. I have proven myself subject to the desires of the flesh and am responsible for taking you to my bed.”

Shocked whispers echoed around the arena. Feeling light-headed from the fight, Glorfindel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Turgon was taking all fault on himself, but surely Glorfindel held much of the blame.

The King continued, “I now realize how impossible a burden I laid on the people of Gondolin. It was wrong to deny our need to love with our bodies. Here is my decision in an attempt to put it right. I extend a royal apology to Loremaster Pengolodh who had the courage to speak the truth. And I hereby lift the edict against physical expression of love—all love.” More whispers from the crowd. “Tomorrow, I will convene my Council and we will explore ways to husband our resources so that Gondolin may be blessed with more children.”

Glorfindel raised his head in wonder. Here was the fair and wise master he’d adored. The murmurs of the crowd turned into a sigh, and then tumultuous cheering.

Pengolodh rose from his seat and bowed towards the King. “My Lord, I only wanted the truth and now I have it. I accept your apology and remain, as ever, your loyal subject.” He sat again.

Glorfindel suspected that it was not over between them as Pengolodh had demonstrated a shocking lack of respect, but at least publicly they had reconciled. 

Turgon nodded curtly at Pengolodh. He raised his arms and proclaimed, “This challenge has been fulfilled.” 

Still feeling disoriented, Glorfindel stood. He bowed deeply to the King, then offered his hand to Lord Rog, who clasped it heartily. 

The cheers became deafening as the crowd waved handkerchiefs and tossed yellow flowers down onto the field. Many left their seats and surrounded Glorfindel, clapping him on the shoulder and offering to buy him drinks. He saw Ecthelion trying to push through the crowd. Glorfindel shoved his way towards him until they met and embraced. 

Ecthelion was grinning broadly. “What a display of courage! Well done, my friend,” he cried, thumping Glorfindel on the back.

Glorfindel pulled him close. “My friend, my love, you are a wonder. For the first time in many years, I feel I can breathe again.” 

 

The End

 

*************  
Notes:  
In order to write the fight scene, I spent some time watching vids of longsword fights. What did writers ever do before youtube! I know enough to know that I don’t know squat. If any of you are experts and can email me with tips on writing it better, that would be cool. 

Many thanks to my good friend and fabulous beta, Russandol, for the quick edits, astute comments, encouragement and camaraderie.

Cheers!


End file.
